76  / 


Overland  Red 


THE   GIRL'S    LEVEL   GRAY    EYES   STUDIED    THE    TRAMP'S   FACE 


Overland  Red 

A  ROMANCE 
OP  THE  MOONSTONE  CANON  TRAIL 


WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 
ANTON  PISCHEB 


NEW  YORK 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP 
PUBLISHERS 

Made  in  the  Doited  State*  of 


COPYRIGHT,  1914,  BY  HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
JOA  RIGHTS  RXSKKVBD 


To  I.  J.  E. 


644150 


Contents 

THE  ROAD ri 

I.  THE  PROSPECTOR          3 

II.  WAXES 10 

III.  RAGGED  ROMANCE 14 

IV.  "ANY  ROAD,  AT  ANY  TIME,  FOB  ANYWHERE"  25 
V.  "CAN  HE  RIDE?"  .......  39 

VI.  ADVOCATE  EXTRAORDINARY       ....    48 

VII.  THE  GIRL  WHO  GLANCED  BACK     ...    60 

VIII.  THE  TEST 72 

IX.  A  CELESTIAL  ENTERPRISE 88 

X.  "PERFECTLY  HARMLESS  LITTLE  OLE  TEN 
DERFOOT"      98 

XI.  DESERT  LAW 110 

XII.  "FOOL'S  LUCK" 125 

XIII.  THE  RETURN 132 

XIV.  "CALL  IT  THE  'RosE  GIRL'"  .      .      .      .141 
XV.  SILENT  SAUNDERS 157 

XVI.  BLUNDER 163 

XVII.  GUESTS 177 

XVIII.  A  RED  EPISODE     .      .      .      .      .      .      .181 

vii 


Contents 

XIX.  "To  CUT  MY  TRAIL  LIKE  THAT"    .      .  *0£ 

XX.  THE  LED  HORSE 211 

XXI.  BORROWED  PLUMES  ....  .  223 

XXII.  THE  YUMA  COLT 231 

XXIII.  SILENT  SAUNDERS  SPEAKS     ....  247 

XXIV.  "LIKE  SUNSHINE" 254 

XXV.  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  HTWE  .      .      .  262 

XXVI.   SPECIAL 273 

XXVII.  THE  RIDERS 278 

XXVIII.  GOPHERTOWN 288 

XXIX.  TOLL 299 

XXX.  Two  ROSES 305 

XXXI.  NIGHT 320 

XXXII.  MORNING 332 

XXXm.    A  SPEECH  ...  345 


The  Road 

t  • 

THROUGH  the  San  Fernai>do;YaHeyUctvvard 
the  hills  of  Calabasas  runs  that  old  road, 
El  Camino  Real  of  the  early  Mission  days. 

And  now  replicas  of  old  Mission  bells,  each 
suspended  in  solitary  dignity  from  a  rusted  iron 
rod,  mark  intervals  along  the  dusty  way,  once 
a  narrow  trail  worn  by  the  patient  feet  of  that 
gentle  and  great  padre,  Junipero  Serra,  —  a 
trail  from  the  San  Gabriel  Valley  to  the  shores 
of  Monterey.  A  narrow  trail  then,  but,  even 
then,  to  him  it  was  broad  in  its  potential  signi 
ficance  of  the  dawn  of  Grace  upon  the  mountain 
shores  of  Heaven's  lost  garden,  California. 

Not  far  from  one  iron-posted  bell  in  the  val 
ley,  El  Camino  Real  falters,  to  find,  eventually, 
a  lazy  way  round  the  low  foothills,  as  though 
reluctant  to  lift  its  winding  length  over  the 
sharp  pitch  of  the  Canajo  Pass,  beyond. 

Near  this  lone  bell  another  road,  an  offspring 
of  old  El  Camino  Real,  runs  quickly  from  its 
gray  and  patient  sire.  Branching  south  in  hur 
ried  turns  and  multiple  windings  it  climbs  the 
rolling  hills,  ever  dodging  the  rude-piled  masses 
of  rock,  with  scattered  brush  between,  but  for 
ever  aspiring  courageously  through  the  moun- 

xi 


The  Road 

tain  sage  and  sunshine  toward  its  ultimate  green 
rest  in  the  shadowy  hills. 

In  the  sweet  sage  is  the  drone  of  bees,  like  the 
hum  of  a.  far-  city.  The  thinning,  acrid  air  is 
tinged^  witli  :  t&e  faint  fragrance  of  sunburnt 


frp    grasses. 

With  the'  sinuou's  avoidings  of  a  baffled  snake 
the  road  turns  and  turns  upon  itself  until  its 
earlier  promise  of  high  adventuring  seems  doubt 
ful.  As  often  as  not  it  climbs  a  semi-barren  dun 
stretch  of  sunbaked  earth  dotted  with  stubby 
cacti  —  passes  these  dwarfed  grotesques,  and 
attempts  the  narrowing  crest  of  the  canon-wall, 
to  swing  abruptly  back  to  the  cacti  again,  gain 
ing  but  little  in  its  upward  trend. 

Impatient,  it  finally  plunges  dizzily  round  a 
sharp,  outstanding  angle  of  rock  and  down 
into  the  unexpected  enchantment  of  Moonstone 
Canon.  Here  the  gaunt  cliffs  rise  to  great  wild 
gardens,  draped  with  soft  rose  and  poignant  red 
amid  drowsy  undertones  of  gray  and  green  and 
gold.  Dots  of  vivid  colors  flame  and  fade  and 
pass  to  ledges  of  dank,  vineclad  rock  and  drifts 
of  shale,  as  the  road  climbs  again. 

At  the  next  turn  are  the  indistinct  voices  of 
water,  commingling  in  a  monotone  —  and  the 
road  ceases  to  be,  as  the  cool  silver  of  a  moun 
tain  stream  cuts  through  it,  with  seemingly 
inconsequential  meanderings,  but  with  the  soft 

xii 


The  Road 

arrogance  of  a  power  too  great  to  be  denied.  And 
the  indistinct  voices,  left  behind,  fade  to  unim 
aginable  sounds  as  the  stream  patters  down  its 
gravelly  course,  contented  beyond  measure  with 
its  own  adventuring. 

Patiently  the  road  takes  up  its  way,  moving 
in  easier  sweeps  through  a  widening  valley,  but 
forever  climbing. 

Again  and  again,  fetlock  deep  across  it  runs 
the  stream,  gently  persistent  and  forever  mur 
muring  its  happy  soliloquies. 

Here  and  there  the  road  passes  quickly 
through  a  blot  of  shade,  —  a  group  of  wide- 
spreading  live-oaks, —  and  reappears,  gray- 
white  and  hot  in  the  sun. 

And  then,  its  high  ambition  fulfilled,  the  road 
recovers  from  its  last  climbing  sweep  round  the 
base  of  a  shouldering  hill  and  runs  straight  and 
smooth  to  its  ultimate  green  rest  in  the  shade  of 
the  sycamores.  Beyond  these  two  huge-limbed 
warders  of  the  mountain  ranch  gate,  there  is  a 
flower-bordered  way,  but  it  is  the  road  no 
longer. 

The  mountain  ranch  takes  its  name  from  the 
canon  below.  It  is  the  Moonstone  Ranch,  the 
home  of  Louise,  whose  ancestors,  the  Lacharmes* 
grew  roses  in  old  France. 

Among  the  many  riders  to  and  from  the  ranch, 
there  is  one,  a  great,  two-fisted,  high-complex- 

xiii 


The  Road 

ioned  man,  whose  genial  presence  is  ever  welcome* 
He  answers  to  many  names.  To  the  youngsters 
he  is  "Uncle  Jack," —  usually  with  an  exclama 
tion.  To  some  of  the  older  folk  he  is  "Mr. 
Summers,"  or  "Jack."  Again,  the  foreman  of 
the  Moonstone  Ranch  seldom  calls  him  anything 
more  dignified  than  "Red."  Louise  does  some 
times  call  him  —  quite  affectionately —  "Over 
land." 


Overland  Red 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   PROSPECTOR 

FOR  five  years  he  had  journeyed  back  and 
forth  between  the  little  desert  station  on 
the  Mojave  and  the  range  to  the  north.  The 
townspeople  paid  scant  attention  to  him.  He 
was  simply  another  "desert  rat"  obsessed  with 
the  idea  that  gold  was  to  be  found  in  those 
northern  hills.  He  bought  supplies  and  paid 
grudgingly.  No  one  knew  his  name. 

The  prospector  was  much  younger  than  he 
appeared  to  be.  The  desert  sun  had  dried  his 
sinews  and  warped  his  shoulders.  The  desert 
wind  had  scrawled  thin  lines  of  age  upon  his  face. 
The  desert  solitude  had  stooped  him  with  its 
awesome  burden  of  brooding  silence. 

Slowly  his  mind  had  been  squeezed  dry  of  all 
human  interest  save  the  recurrent  memory  of  a 
child's  face — that,  and  the  poignant  memory 
of  the  child's  mother.  For  ten  years  he  had  been 
trying  to  forget.  The  last  five  years  on  the  desert 
had  dimmed  the  woman's  visioned  face  as  the 

3 


Overland  Red 

child  came  more  often  between  him  and  the 
memory  of  the  mother,  in  his  dreams. 

Then  there  were  voices,  the  voices  of  strange 
spirits  that  winged  through  the  dusk  of  the  out- 
lands  and  hovered  round  his  fire  at  night. 

One  voice,  soft,  insistent,  ravished  his  imagi 
nation  with  visions  of  illimitable  power  and 
peace  and  rest.  "Gold!  Lost  gold!"  it  would 
whisper  as  he  sat  by  the  meager  flame.  Then  he 
would  tremble  and  draw  nearer  the  warmth. 
"Where?"  he  would  ask,  tempting  the  darkness 
as  a  child,  fearfully  certain  of  a  reply. 

Then  another  voice,  cadenced  like  the  soft 
rush  of  waves  up  the  sand,  would  murmur, 
"Somewhere  away!  Somewhere  away!  Some 
where  away!"  And  in  the  indefiniteness  of  that 
answer  he  found  an  inexplicable  joy.  The  vague 
ness  of  "Somewhere  away"  was  as  vast  with 
pregnant  possibilities  as  his  desert.  His  was  the 
eternity  of  hope,  boundless  and  splendid  in  its 
extravagant  promises.  Drunk  with  the  wine  of 
dreams,  he  knew  himself  to  be  a  monarch,  a 
monarch  uncrowned  and  unattended,  yet  always 
with  his  feet  upon  the  wide  threshold  of  his 
kingdom. 

Then  would  come  the  biting  chill  of  night,  the 
manifold  rays  of  stars  and  silence,  silence  reft  of 
winds,  yet  alive  with  the  tense  immobility  of  the 
crouching  beast,  waiting  .  .  .  waiting.  ,  .  . 

4 


The  Prospector 

The  desert,  impassively  withering  him  to  the 
shell  of  a  man,  or  wracking  him  terribly  in 
heat  or  in  storm  and  cold,  still  cajoled  him  day 
and  night  with  promises,  whispered,  vague  and 
intoxicating  as  the  perfume  of  a  woman's  hair. 

Finally  the  desert  flung  wide  the  secret  portals 
of  her  treasure-house  and  gave  royally  like  a 
courtesan  of  kings. 

The  man,  his  dream  all  but  fulfilled,  found  the 
taste  of  awakening  bitter  on  his  lips.  He  counted 
his  years  of  toil  and  cursed  as  he  viewed  his 
shrunken  hands,  claw-like,  scarred,  crippled. 

He  felt  the  weight  of  his  years  and  dreaded 
their  accumulated  burdens.  He  realized  that 
the  dream  was  all  —  its  fulfillment  nothing.  He 
knew  himself  to  be  a  thing  to  be  pointed  at;  yet 
he  longed  for  the  sound  of  human  voices,  for  the 
touch  of  human  hands,  for  the  living  sweetness 
of  his  child's  face.  The  sirens  of  the  invisible 
night  no  longer  whispered  to  him.  He  was 
utterly  alone.  He  had  entered  his  kingdom. 
Viewed  from  afar  it  had  seemed  a  vast  pleasure- 
dome  of  infinite  enchantment.  He  found  Success, 
as  it  ever  shall  be,  a  veritable  desert,  grudging 
man  foothold,  yet  luring  him  from  one  aspiration 
to  another,  only  to  consume  his  years  in  dust. 

A  narrow  canon  held  his  secret.  He  had  wan 
dered  into  it,  panned  a  little  black  sand,  and 
found  color.  Finally  he  discovered  the  fountain- 

5 


Overland  Red 

head  of  the  hoarded  yellow  particles  that  spell 
Power.  There  in  the  fastness  of  those  steep, 
purgatorial  walls  was  the  hermitage  of  the  two 
voices  —  voices  that  no  longer  whispered  of  hope, 
but  left  him  in  the  utter  loneliness  of  possession 
and  its  birthright,  Fear. 

He  cried  aloud  for  the  companionship  of  men 
—  and  glanced  fearfully  round  lest  man  had 
heard  him  call. 

He  again  journeyed  to  the  town  beside  the 
railroad,  bought  supplies  and  vanished,  a  ragged 
wraith,  on  the  horizon. 

Back  in  the  canon  he  set  about  his  labors,  find 
ing  a  numbing  solace  in  toil. 

But  at  night  he  would  think  of  the  child's  face. 
He  had  said  to  those  with  whom  he  had  left  the 
child  that  he  would  return  with  a  fortune.  They 
knew  he  went  away  to  forget.  They  did  not  expect 
him  to  return.  That  had  been  ten  years  ago.  He 
had  written  twice.  Then  he  had  drifted,  always 
promising  the  inner  voice  that  urged  him  that  he 
would  find  gold  for  her,  his  child,  that  she  might 
ever  think  kindly  of  him.  So  he  tried  to  buy 
himself  —  with  promises.  Once  he  had  been  a 
man  of  his  hands,  a  man  who  stood  straight  and 
faced  the  sun.  Now  the  people  of  the  desert  town 
eyed  him  askance.  He  heard  them  say  he  was 
mad  — that  the  desert  had  "got  him."  They 
were  wrong.  The  desert  and  its  secret  was  his  — • 

6 


The  Prospector 

a  sullen  paramour,  but  his  nevertheless.    Had 
she  not  given  him  of  her  very  heart? 

He  viewed  his  shrunken  body,  knew  that  he 
stooped  and  shuffled,  realized  that  he  had  paid 
the  inevitable,  the  inexorable  price  for  the  secret. 
His  wine  of  dreams  had  evaporated.  .  .  .  He 
sifted  the  coarse  gold  between  his  fingers,  letting 
it  fall  back  into  the  pan.  Was  it  for  this  that  he 
had  wasted  his  soul? 

In  the  desert  town  men  began  to  notice  the 
regularity  of  his  comings  and  goings.  Two  or 
three  of  them  foregathered  in  the  saloon  and 
commented  on  it. 

"He  packed  some  dynamite  last  trip,"  as 
serted  one. 

There  was  a  silence.  The  round  clock  behind 
the  bar  ticked  loudly,  ominously. 

"Then  he's  struck  it  at  last,"  said  another. 

"Mebby,"  commented  the  first  speaker. 

The  third  man  nodded.  Then  came  silence 
again  and  the  absolute  ticking  of  the  clock. 
Presently  from  outside  in  the  white  heat  of  the 
road  came  the  rush  of  hoofs  and  an  abrupt  stop. 
A  spurred  and  booted  rider,  his  swarthy  face 
gray  with  dust,  strode  in,  nodded  to  the  group 
and  called  for  whiskey. 

"Which  way  did  he  go,  Saunders?"  asked 
one. 

7 


Overland  Red 

"North,  as  usual,"  said  the  rider. 

"Let's  set  down,"  suggested  the  third  man. 

They  shuffled  to  a  table.  The  bartender 
brought  glasses  and  a  bottle.  Then,  uninvited, 
he  pulled  up  a  chair  and  sat  with  them.  The 
rider  looked  at  him  pointedly. 

"Oh,  I'm  in  on  this,"  asserted  the  bartender. 
"Daugherty  is  the  Wells-Fargo  man  here.  He 
won't  talk  to  nobody  but  me  —  about  busi 


ness.9' 


"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?"  queried  the 
rider. 

"Just  what  you'd  notice,  Saunders.  Listen! 
The  rat  left  a  bag  of  dust  in  the  Company's  safe 
last  trip.  Daugherty  says  its  worth  mebby  five 
hundred.  He  says  the  rat's  goin'  to  bring  in 
some  more.  Do  I  come  in?  " 

"You're  on,"  said  the  rider.  "Now,  see  here, 
boys,  we  got  to  find  out  if  he's  filed  on  it  yet,  and 
what  his  name  is,  and  then  — " 

"Mebby  we'd  better  find  out  where  it  is  first," 
suggested  one. 

"And  then  jump  him?"  queried  the  rider  over 
his  glass. 

"And  then  jump  him,"  chorused  the  group. 
"He's  out  there  alone.  It's  easy."  And  each 
poured  himself  a  drink,  for  which,  strangely 
enough,  no  one  offered  to  pay,  and  for  which 
the  bartender  evidently  forgot  to  collect. 

8 


The  Prospector 

Meanwhile  the  prospector  toiled  through  the 
drought  of  that  summer  hoarding  the  little  yellow 
flakes  that  he  washed  from  the  gravel  in  the 
canon. 


CHAPTER  II 

WATER 

ALL  round  him  for  miles  each  way  the  water- 
holes  had  gone  dry.  The  little  canon  stream 
still  wound  down  its  shaded  course,  disappearing 
in  a  patch  of  sand  at  the  canon's  mouth,  so  the 
prospector  felt  secure.  None  had  ridden  out  to 
look  for  him  through  that  furnace  of  burning 
sand  that  stretched  between  the  hills  and  the 
desert  town. 

The  stream  dwindled  slowly,  imperceptibly. 

One  morning  the  prospector  noticed  it,  and 
immediately  explored  the  creek  clear  to  its 
source  —  a  spurt  of  water  springing  from  the  roof 
of  a  grotto  in  the  cliff.  Such  a  supply,  evidently 
from  the  rocky  heart  of  the  range  itself,  would  be 
inexhaustible. 

A  week  later  he  awoke  to  find  the  creek-bed 
dry  save  in  a  few  depressions  among  the  rocks. 
He  again  visited  the  grotto.  The  place  was  damp 
and  cool,  glistening  with  beads  of  moisture,  but 
the  flow  from  the  roof -ere  vice  had  ceased.  Still 
he  thought  there  must  be  plenty  of  water  be 
neath  the  rocks  of  the  stream-bed.  He  would  dig 
for  it. 

10 


Water 

Another  week,  and  he  became  uneasy.  The 
stream  had  disappeared  as  though  poured  into  a 
colossal  crevice.  A  few  feet  below  the  gravel  he 
struck  solid  rock.  He  tried  dynamite  unsuccess 
fully.  Then  he  hoarded  the  drippings  from  the 
grotto  crevice  till  he  had  filled  his  canteen.  Care 
fully  he  stowed  his  gold  in  a  chamois  pouch  and 
prepared  to  leave  the  canon.  His  burro  had 
strayed  during  the  week  of  drought  —  was  prob 
ably  dead  beside  some  dry  water-hole. 

The  prospector  set  out  to  cross  the  range  in  the 
light  of  the  stars. 

Fearful  that  he  might  be  seen,  panic  warped 
his  reasoning.  He  planned  to  journey  south 
along  the  foothills,  until  opposite  the  desert  town 
and  then  cross  over  to  it.  If  he  approached  from 
such  a  direction,  no  one  would  guess  his  original 
starting-place.  He  knew  of  an  unfailing  water- 
hole  two  days'  journey  from  the  canon.  This 
water-hole  was  far  out  of  his  way,  but  his  canteen 
supply  would  more  than  last  till  he  reached  it. 

Then  Fate,  the  fate  that  had  dogged  his  every 
step  since  first  he  ventured  into  the  solitudes, 
closed  up  and  crept  at  his  heels.  He  became 
more  morose  and  strangely  fearful.  His  vision, 
refined  by  the  wasting  of  his  body,  created  shad 
ows  that  lay  about  his  feet  like  stagnant  pools, 
shadows  where  no  shadows  should  be. 

Ominous  was  his  fall  as  he  crossed  an  arroyo, 

11 


Overland  Red 

The  canteen,  slung  over  his  shoulder,  struck  a 
sharp  point  of  rock  that  started  one  of  the  seams. 
The  leak  was  infinitesimal.  The  felt  cover  of  the 
canteen  absorbed  the  drip,  which  evaporated. 
When  he  arrived  at  the  water-hole,  that  was  dry. 
His  canteen  felt  strangely  light.  He  could  not 
remember  having  used  so  much  water.  He 
changed  his  plan.  He  struck  straight  from  the 
hills  toward  the  railroad.  He  knew  that  eventu 
ally  he  would,  as  he  journeyed  west,  cross  it, 
perhaps  near  a  water-tank. 

Toward  the  blinding  afternoon  of  that  day  he 
saw  strange  lakes  and  pools  spread  out  upon  the 
distant  sand  and  inverted  mountain  ranges 
stretching  to  the  horizon. 

Fate  crept  closer  to  his  heels,  waiting  with  the 
dumb  patience  of  the  desert  to  claim  the  strug 
gling,  impotent  puppet  whose  little  day  was  all 
but  spent. 

He  stumbled  across  the  blazing  bars  of  steel 
that  marked  the  railroad.  His  empty  canteen 
clattered  on  the  ties  as  he  fell.  He  got  to  his 
knees  and  dragged  himself  from  the  track.  He 
laughed,  for  he  had  thwarted  Fate  this  once;  he 
would  not  be  run  over  by  the  train.  He  lay  limp, 
wasted,  scarcely  breathing. 

Serenely  Fate  crouched  near  him,  patient, 
impassive.  .  .  . 

He  heard  a  man  speak  and  another  answer 

12 


Water 

He  felt  an  arm  beneath  his  head,  and  water  .  .  , 
Water! 

He  drank,  and  all  at  once  his  strength  flamed 
up.  It  was  not  water  they  gave  him;  it  was  merely 
the  taste  of  it  —  a  mockery.  He  wanted  more 
.  .  .  all! 

He  lurched  to  his  feet,  struggling  with  a 
bearded  giant  that  held  him  from  his  desire  —  to 
drink  until  he  could  drink  no  more  —  to  die 
drinking  the  water  they  had  taken  from  him  even 
as  they  gave  it.  He  fought  blindly.  Fate,  dis 
daining  further  patience,  arose  and  flung  itself 
about  his  feet.  He  stumbled.  A  flash  wiped  all 
things  from  his  vision  and  the  long  night  came 
swiftly. 


CHAPTER  III 

BAGGED   ROMANCE 

AT  the  wide  gate  of  the  mountain  ranch 
stood  the  girl.  Her  black  saddle-pony 
JJoyar  fretted  to  be  away.  Glancing  back 
through  the  cavernous  shade  of  the  live-oaks, 
the  girl  hesitated  before  opening  the  gate.  A 
little  breeze,  wayfaring  through  Moonstone 
Canon  and  on  up  to  the  mountain  ranch,  touched 
the  girl's  cheek  and  she  breathed  deeply  of  its 
eool  fragrance. 

The  wide  gate  swung  open,  and  Louise 
Lacharme,  curbing  Black  Boyar,  rode  out  of  the 
shadows  into  the  hot  light  of  the  morning,  sing 
ing  as  she  rode. 

Against  the  soft  gray  of  the  canon  wall  flamed 
a  crimson  flower  like  a  pomegranate  bud.  Across 
the  road  ran  the  cool  mountain  stream.  Away 
and  away  toward  the  empty  sky  the  ragged  edges 
of  the  cliffs  were  etched  sharply  upon  the  blue. 

The  road  ran  swiftly  round  the  eastern  wall  of 
the  canon.  Louise,  as  fragrantly  bright  as  morp* 
ing  sunshine  on  golden  flowers,  laughed  as  tne 
pony's  lithe  bound  tore  the  silver  of  the  ford  to 
swirling  beads  and  blade-like  flashes. 

14 


Ragged  Romance 

On  the  rise  beyond,  the  girl  drew  rein  at  the 
beginning  of  the  Old  Meadow  Trail,  a  hidden 
trail  that  led  to  a  mountain  meadow  of  ripe 
grasses,  groups  of  trees,  and  the  enchantment  of 
seclusion. 

The  pony  shouldered  through  the  breast-high 
igreasewood  and  picked  his  steps  along  the  edge 
of  the  hill.  The  twigs  and  branches  lisped  and 
clattered  against  the  carved  leather  tapaderos 
that  hooded  the  stirrups.  The  warm  sun  awoke 
the  wild  fragrance  of  sage  and  mountain  soil. 
Little  lizards  of  the  stones  raced  from  Black 
Boyar's  tread,  becoming  rigid  on  the  sides  of 
rocks,  clinging  at  odd  angles  with  heads  slanted, 
like  delicate  Orient  carvings  in  dull  brass. 

The  girl's  eyes,  the  color  of  sea-water  in  the 
sun,  were  leveled  toward  the  distant  hills  across 
the  San  Fernando  Valley.  From  her  fingers 
dangled  the  long  bridle-reins.  Her  lips  were 
gently  parted.  Her  gaze  was  the  gaze  of  one  who 
dreams  in  the  daylight.  And  close  in  the  hidden 
meadow  crouched  Romance,  Romance  ragged, 
unkempt,  jocular.  .  .  . 

Boyar  first  scented  the  wood-smoke.  Louise 
noticed  his  forward-standing  ears  and  his  fid 
geting.  Immediately  before  her  was  the  low 
rounded  rock,  a  throne  of  dreams  that  she 
had  graced  before.  From  down  the  slope  and 
almost  hidden  by  the  bulk  of  the  rock,  a  little 

15 


Overland  Red 

wand  of  smoke  stood  up  in  the  windless  air, 
to  break  at  last  into  tiny  shreds  and  curls  of 
nothingness. 

"It  can't  be  much  of  a  fire  yet!"  exclaimed 
Louise,  forever  watchful,  as  are  all  the  hill-folk, 
for  that  dread,  ungovernable  red  monster  of 
destruction,  a  mountain  fire.  "It  can't  be  much 
of  a  fire  yet." 

The  pony  Boyar,  delicately  scenting  something 
more  than  wood-smoke,  snorted  and  swerved. 
Louise  dismounted  and  stepped  hurriedly  round 
the  shoulder  of  the  rock.  A  bristle-bearded  face 
confronted  her.  "No,  it  ain't  much  of  a  fire  yet, 
but  our  hired  girl  she  joined  a  movin'-picture 
outfit,  so  us  two  he-things  are  doin'  the  best  we 
can  chasin'  a  breakfast."  And  the  tramp, 
Overland  Red,  ragged,  unkempt,  jocular,  rose 
from  his  knees  beside  a  tiny  blaze.  He  pulled  a 
bleak  flop  of  felt  from  his  tangled  hair  in  an  over- 
accentuated  bow  of  welcome. 

"We  offer  you  the  freedom  of  the  city,  ma'am. 
Welcome  to  our  midst,  and  kindly  excuse  appear 
ances  this  morning.  Our  trunks  got  delayed  in 
New  York." 

Unsmilingly  the  girl's  level  gray  eyes  studied 
the  tramp's  face.  Then  her  glance  swept  him 
swiftly  from  bared  head  to  rundown  heel.  "I 
was  just  making  up  my  mind  whether  I'd  stay 
and  talk  with  you,  or  ask  you  to  put  out  your 

16 


Ragged  Romance 

fire  and  go  somewhere  else.  But  I  think  you  are 
all  right.  Please  put  on  your  hat." 

Overland  Red's  self-assurance  shrunk  a  little. 
The  girl's  eyes  were  direct  and  fearless,  yet  not 
altogether  unfriendly.  He  thought  that  deep 
within  them  dwelt  a  smile. 

"You  got  my  map  all  right,"  he  said,  a  trifle 
more  respectfully.  "'Course  we'll  douse  the  fire 
when  we  duck  out  of  here.  But  what  do  you 
think  of  Collie  here,  my  pal?  Is  he  all  right?" 

"Oh,  he's  only  a  boy,"  said  Louise,  glancing 
casually  at  the  youth  crouched  above  the  fire. 

The  boy,  a  slim  lad  of  sixteen  or  thereabout, 
flushed  beneath  the  battered  brim  of  his  black 
felt  hat.  He  watched  the  tomato-can  coffee-pot 
intently.  Louise  could  not  see  his  face. 

"Yes,  Miss.  I'm  all  right  and  so  is  he."  And 
a  humorous  wistfulness  crept  into  the  tramp's 
eyes.  "  He's  what  you  might  call  a  changeling." 

"Changeling?" 

"Uhuh!  Always  changin'  around  from  place 
to  place  —  when  you  're  young.  Ain't  that  it?  " 

"Oh!  And  when  you  are  older?  "  she  queried, 
smiling. 

Overland  Red  frowned.  "  Oh,  then  you  're  just 
a  tramp,  a  Willie,  a  Bo,  a  Hobo." 

He  saw  the  girl's  eyes  harden  a  little.  He- 
spoke  quickly,  and,  she  imagined,  truthfully. 
"  I  worbed  ten  years  for  one  outfit  once,  without 

17 


Overland  Red 

a  change.  And  I  never  knowed  what  it  was  to  do 
a  day's  work  out  of  the  saddle.  You  know  what 
that  means." 

"Cattle?  Mexico?" 

Overland  Red  grinned.  "Say!  You  was  born 
fa  California,  was  n't  you?" 

"Yes,  of  course." 

"  'Cause  Mexico  has  been  about  the  only  place 
a  puncher  could  work  that  long  without  doin* 
day  labor  on  foot  half  the  year.  Yes,  I  been 
there.  'Course,  now,  I'm  doin'  high  finance,  and 
givin'  advice  to  the  young,  and  livin'  on  my 
income.  And  say,  when  it  comes  to  real  brain 
work,  I'm  the  Most  Exhausted  Baked  High 
Potentate,  but  I  would  n't  do  no  mineral  labor 
for  nobody.  If  I  can't  work  in  the  saddle,  I  don't 
work— that 'sail." 

"Mineral  labor?  What,  mining?"  asked 
Louise. 

"No,  not  mining.  Jest  mineral  labor  like 
Japs,  or  section-hands,  or  coachmen  with  bugs 
on  their  hats.  Ain't  the  papers  always  speakin' 
of  that  kind  as  minerals?" 

"Don't  you  mean  menials?" 

"Well,  yes.  It's  all  the  same,  anyway.  I  never 
do  no  hair-splittin'  on  words.  Bein'  a  pote  my 
self,  it  ain't  necessary." 

"A  — a  poet!  Really?" 

"Really  and  truly,  and  carry  one  and  add  five. 

18 


Ragged  Romance 

I've  roped  a  lot  of  po'try  in  my  time,  Miss. 
Say,  are  we  campin'  on  your  land?" 

"No.  This  is  government  land,  from  here  to 
our  line  up  above  —  the  Moonstone  Rancho." 

"The  Moonstone  Rancho?"  queried  Overland 
Red,  breaking  a  twig  and  feeding  the  fire. 

"Yes.  It's  named  after  the  cafion.  But  don't 
let  me  keep  you  from  breakfast." 

"Breakfast,  eh?  That's  right!  I  almost  forgot 
it,  talkin'  to  you.  Collie's  got  the  coffee  to 
boilin'.  No,  you  ain't  keepin'  us  from  our  break 
fast  any  that  you'd  notice.  It  would  take  a 
whole  reg'ment  of  Rurales  to  keep  us  from  a 
breakfast  if  we  seen  one  runnin'  around  loose 
without  its  pa  or  ma." 

Louise  Lacharme  did  not  smile.  This  was  too 
real.  Here  was  adventure  with  no  raconteur's 
glamour,  no  bookish  gloss.  Here  was  Romance. 
Romance  unshaven,  illiterate,  with  its  coat  off 
making  coffee  in  a  smoke-blackened  tomato-can, 
but  Romance  nevertheless.  That  this  romance 
should  touch  her  life,  Louise  had  not  the  faintest 
dream.  She  was  alone  .  .  .  but,  pshaw!  Boyar 
was  grazing  near,  and  besides,  she  was  not  really 
afraid  of  the  men.  She  thought  she  rather  liked 
them,  or,  more  particularly,  the  boisterous  one 
who  had  said  his  name  was  Overland  Red. 

The  tramp  gazed  at  her  a  moment  before  he 
lifted  the  tomato-can  from  the  embers. 

19 


Overland  Red 

know  you  won't  join  us,  but  we're  goin'  to  give 
you  the  invite  just  the  same.  And  we  mean  it. 
Ma'am,  if  you  '11  be  so  kind  as  to  draw  up  your 
chair,  us  gents '11  eat." 

"Thank  you!"  said  Louise,  and  Overland's 
face  brightened  at  the  good-fellowship  in  her 
voice.  "Thank  you  both,  but  I've  had  break 
fast." 

She  gazed  at  the  solitary,  bubbling,  tomato-can 
coffee-pot  of  "second-edition"  coffee.  There  was 
nothing  else  to  grace  the  board,  or  rather  rock. 
"I'll  be  right  back,"  she  said.  "I'll  just  take  off 
Boyar's  bridle.  Here,  Boy !"  she  called.  "You'll 
be  able  to  eat  better." 

And  she  ran  to  the  pony.  From  a  saddle- 
pocket  she  took  her  own  lunch  of  sandwiches  and 
ripe  olives  wrapped  in  oiled  paper.  She  delayed 
her  return  to  loosen  the  forward  cincha  of  the 
saddle  and  to  find  the  little  stock  of  cigarette- 
papers  and  tobacco  that  she  carried  for  any  chance 
rider  of  the  Moonstone  who  might  be  without 
them. 

Collie,  the  boy  tramp,  glanced  up  at  Overland 
Red.  "I  guess  she's  gone,"  he  said  regret 
fully. 

"You're  nutty,  Collie.  She  ain't  the  kind  to 
sneak  off  after  sayin'  she 's  comin'  back.  I  know 
a  hoss  and  a  real  woman  when  I  see  'em.  I  was 
raised  in  the  West,  myself." 

20 


Ragged  Romance 

The  boy  Collie  was  young,  sensitive,  and  he 
had  not  been  "raised  in  the  West."  He  frowned. 
"Yes,  you  was  raised  in  the  West,  and  what  you 
got  to  show  for  it?" 

"Well,  hear  the  kid!"  exclaimed  Overland. 
"Out  of  the  mouth  of  babes  and  saplings!  What 
have  I  got  to  show?  What  have  I — !  Wha — ? 
Oh,  you  go  chase  a  snake!  I  know  a  good  boss 
and  a  good  woman  when  I  see  'em,  and  I  seen 
both  together  this  morning." 

"But  what  do  she  want  with  us  bos?"  asked 
the  boy. 

"S-s-h-h!  Why,  she 's  interested  in  me  roman 
tic  past,  of  course.  Ain't  I  the  'cute  little  gopher 
when  it  comes  to  the  ladies?  Fan  me,  Collie,  and 
slow  music  and  a  beer  for  one.  I  'm  some  lady 's- 
man,  sister!" 

"You're  a  bo,  the  same  as  me,"  said  the 
boy. 

"S-s-h-h!  For  the  love  of  Pete,  don't  you 
handle  that  word  'bo'  so  careless.  It's  loaded. 
It  has  a  jarrin'  effect  on  ears  unattenuated  —  er 
—  meanin'  ears  that  ain't  keyed  up  to  it,  as  the 
pote  says.  She's  comin'  back.  Fold  your  nap 
kin.  Don't  look  so  blame  hungry !  Ain't  you  got 
any  style?" 

"She's  the  prettiest  girl  I  ever  seen,"  said  the 
boy,  hastily  swallowing  his  share  of  the  hot, 
insipid  coffee. 

21 


Overland  Red 

"Pretty?"  whispered  Overland,  as  Louise 
approached.  "She's  thoroughbred.  Did  you  see 
them  eyes?  Afraid  of  nothin',  and  smilin'  at 
what  might  dast  to  scare  her.  Not  foolish,  either. 
She's  wise.  And  she's  kind  and  laughin',  and 
not  ashamed  to  talk  to  us.  That's  thorough 
bred." 

Round  the  rock  came  Louise,  the  neat  pack 
age  of  sandwiches  in  one  hand.  In  the  other  was 
the  tobacco  and  cigarette-papers.  "I'm  going 
to  have  my  luncheon,"  she  said.  "If  you  won't 
object,  I  '11  take  a  sandwich.  There,  I  have  mine. 
The  rest  are  for  you." 

"We  had  our  breakfast,"  said  Overland 
quickly,  "when  you  was  talkin'  to  your  pony." 

Louise  glanced  at  the  empty  tomato-can. 
"Well,  I'll  excuse  you  for  not  waiting  for  me,  but 
I  shall  not  excuse  you  from  having  luncheon 
with  me.  I  made  these  sandwiches  myself .  Have 
one.  They're  really  good." 

"Oh!"  groaned  Overland,  grimacing.  "If  I 
could  curry  up  my  language  smooth,  like  that, 
I  —  I  guess  I  'd  get  deaf  listenin'  to  myself  talk. 
You  said  that  speech  like  takin'  two  turns  round 
the  bandstand  tryin'  to  catch  yourself,  and  then 
climbin'  a  post  and  steppin'  on  your  own  shoul 
ders  so  you  could  see  the  parade  down  the  street. 
Do  you  get  that?"  And  he  sighed  heavily. 
"Say!  These  here  sandwiches  is  great!" 


Ragged  Romance 

"Will  you  have  one?  "  asked  Louise,  gracefully 
proffering  the  olives. 

"Seein'  it's  you.  Thanks.  I  always  take  two. 
The  second  one  for  a  chaser  to  kill  the  taste  of  the 
first.  It's  the  only  way  to  eat  'em  —  if  you 
know  where  to  stop.  They  do  taste  like  some- 
thin'  you  done  and  are  sorry  for  afterwards, 
don't  they?" 

"Were  you  ever  sorry  for  anything?  "  asked  the 
boy,  feeling  a  little  piqued  that  he  had  been  left 
out  of  the  conversation. 

"I  was  raised  in  the  West,  myself,"  growled 
the  tramp,  scowling.  "But  that's  a  good  pony 
you  got,  Miss.  That  your  saddle  too?" 

"Yes." 

"You  rope  any?" 

"  A  little.  How  did  you  know  ?  " 

"Rawhide  cover  to  the  saddle-horn  is  wore 
with  a  rope,"  said  Overland,  helping  himself  to 
a  second  sandwich. 

Then  the  tramp  and  the  girl,  oblivious  to 
everything  else,  discussed  rawhide  riatas  as  com 
pared  with  the  regular  three-strand  stock  rope, 
or  lariat,  —  center-fire,  three  quarter,  and  double 
rigs,  swell  forks  and  old  Visalia  trees,  spade  bits 
and  "U"  curbs,  —  neither  willing,  even  lightly, 
to  admit  the  other's  superiority  of  chosen  rig. 

The  boy  Collie  listened  intently  and  a  trifle 
jealously.  Overland  Red  and  the  girl  had  found 

23 


Overland  Red 

a  common  ground  of  interest  that  excluded  him 
utterly.  The  boy  itched  for  an  excuse  to  make 
the  girl  speak  to  him,  even  look  at  him. 

The  sandwiches  gone,  Louise  proffered  Over 
land  tobacco  and  papers.  Actual  tears  stood  in 
the  ex-cowboy's  eyes.  "Smoke!  Me?"  he  ex 
claimed.  "I  was  dyin'  for  it.  I'd  do  time  for 
you!" 

Then  in  that  boyish  spirit  that  never  quite 
leaves  the  range-rider,  Overland  Red  took  the 
tobacco  and  papers  and  cleverly  rolled  a  cigarette 
with  one  hand.  In  the  other  he  held  his  battered 
felt  hat.  His  eyes  had  a  far-away  look  as  he 
reached  forward  and  lighted  his  cigarette  at  the 
fire.  "I  was  settin'  on  a  crazy  bronc',  holdin' 
his  head  up  so  he  could  n't  go  to  buckin'  —  out 
side  a  little  old  adobe  down  in  Yuma,  Arizona, 
then,"  he  explained,  glancing  at  the  girl.  "Did 
you  ever  drift  away  complete,  like  that,  jest  from 
some  little  old  trick  to  make  you  dream?" 


CHAPTER  IV 

"ANY  ROAD,  AT  ANY  TIME,  FOR  ANYWHERE" 

THE  boy  Collie  took  the  empty  tomato-can 
and  went  for  water  with  which  to  put  out 
the  fire. 

Louise  and  Overland  Red  gazed  silently  at  the 
youthful  figure  crossing  the  meadow.  The  same 
thought  was  in  both  their  hearts — that  the 
boy's  chance  in  life  was  still  ahead  of  him.  Some 
thing  of  this  was  in  the  girl's  level  gray  eyes  as 
she  asked,  "Why  did  you  come  up  here,  so  far 
from  the  town  and  the  railroad?" 

"  We  generally  don't,"  replied  Overland  Red. 
"  We  ain't  broke.  Collie 's  got  some  money.  We 
got  out  of  grub  from  comin'  up  here.  We  come 
up  to  see  the  scenery.  I  ain't  kiddin';  we  sure 
did!  'Course,  speakin'  in  general,  a  free  lunch 
looks  better  to  me  any  day  than  the  Yosemite  — 
but  that's  because  I  need  the  lunch.  You  got  to 
be  fed  up  to  it  to  enjoy  scenery.  Now,  on  the 
road  we're  lookin'  at  lots  of  it  every  day,  but 
we  ain't  seein'  much.  But  give  me  a  good  feed 
and  turn  me  loose  in  the  Big  Show  Pasture  where 
the  Bridal  Veil  is  weepin'  jealous  of  the  Cathedral 
Spires,  and  the  Big  Trees  is  too  big  to  be  jealous 

25 


Overland  Red 

of  anything,  where  Adam  would  'a'  felt  old  the 
day  he  was  born  —  jest  take  off  my  hobbles  and 
turn  me  out  to  graze  there,  and  feed,  and  say,  lady, 
I  scorn  the  idea  of  doin'  anything  but  decom- 
posin'  my  feelin's  and  smokin'  and  writin' 
po'try.  I  been  there!  There's  where  I  writ  the 
song  called  'Beat  It,  Bo.'  Mebby  you  heard 
of  it." 

"No,  I  should  like  to  hear  it." 

The  fire  steamed  and  spluttered  as  Collie 
extinguished  it.  Overland  Red  handed  the 
tobacco  and  papers  to  him. 

"About  comin'  up  this  here  trail?  "  he  resumed 
as  the  boy  stretched  beside  them  on  the  warm 
earth.  "Well,  Miss,  it  was  four  years  ago  that  I 
picked  up  Collie  here  at  Albuquerque.  His  pa 
died  sudden  and  left  the  kid  to  find  out  what  a 
hard  map  this  ole  world  is.  We  been  across,  from 
Frisco  to  New  York,  twice  since  then,  and  from 
Seattle  to  San  Diego  on  the  side,  and  'most 
everywhere  in  California,  it  bein'  my  native 
State  and  the  best  of  the  lot.  You  see,  Collie, 
he's  gettin'  what  you  might  call  a  liberated 
education,  full  of  big  ideas  —  no  dinky  stuff. 
Yes,  I  picked  him  up  at  Albuquerque,  a  half- 
starved,  skinny  little  cuss  that  was  cry  in'  and 
beggin'  me  to  get  him  out  of  there." 

"Albuquerque?"  queried  Louise. 

"Uhuh.  Later,  comin'  acrost  the  Mojave,  we 

26 


Any  Road  at  Any  Time 

got  thrun  off  a  freight  by  mistake  for  a  couple 
of  sewin'-machines  that  we  was  ridin'  with  to 
Barstow,  so  the  tickets  on  the  crates  said.  That 
was  near  Daggett,  by  a  water-tank.  It  was 
hotter  than  settin'  on  a  stove  in  Death  Valley 
at  12  o'clock  Sunday  noon.  We  beat  it  for  the 
next  town,  afoot.  Collie  commenced  to  give  out. 
He  was  pretty  tender  and  not  strong.  I  lugged 
him  some  and  he  walked  some.  He  was  talkin' 
of  green  grass  and  cucumbers  in  the  ice-box  and 
ice-cream  and  home  and  the  Maumee  River, 
and  a  whole  lot  of  things  you  can't  find  in  the 
desert.  Well,  I  got  him  to  his  feet  next  mornin'. 
We  had  some  trouble,  and  was  detained  a  spell 
in  Barstow  after  that.  They  could  n't  prove 
nothin',  so  they  let  us  go.  Then  Collie  got  to 
talkin'  again  about  a  California  road  that  wiggled 
up  a  hill  and  through  a  canon,  and  had  one  of 
these  here  ole  Mission  bells  where  it  lit  off  for 
the  sky-ranch.  Funny,  for  he  was  never  in  Cali 
fornia  then.  Mebby  it  was  the  old  post-card  he 
got  at  Albuquerque.  You  see  his  pa  bought  it 
for  him  'cause  he  wanted  it.  He  was  only  a  kid 
then.  Collie,  he  says  it's  the  only  thing  his  pa 
ever  did  buy  for  him,  and  so  he  kept  it  till  it  was 
about  wore  out  from  lookin'  at  it.  But  consid- 
erin'  how  his  pa  acted,  I  guess  that  was  about  all 
Collie  needed  to  remember  him  by.  Anyhow,  he 
dreamed  of  that  road,  and  told  me  so  much 

27 


Overland  Red 

about  it  that  I  got  to  lookin'  for  it  too.  I  knowed 
of  the  old  El  Camino  Real  and  the  bells,  so  we 
kept  our  eye  peeled  for  that  particular  dream 
road,  kind  of  for  fun.  We  found  her  yesterday." 

"What,  this?  The  road  to  our  ranch?" 

"Uhuh.  Collie,  he  said  so  the  minute  we  got  in 
that  canon,  Moonstone  Canon,  you  said.  We're 
restin'  up  and  enjoyin'  the  scenery.  We  need  the 
rest,  for  only  last  week  we  resigned  from  doin'  a 
stunt  in  a  movin'-picture  outfit.  They  wanted 
somebody  to  do  native  sons.  We  said  we  did  n't 
have  them  kind  of  clothes,  but  the  foreman  of  the 
outfit  says  we'd  do  fine  jest  as  we  was.  It  was 
fierce  —  and,  believe  me,  lady,  I  been  through 
some!  I  been  through  some! 

"They  was  two  others  in  checker  clothes  and 
dip-lid  caps,  and  they  was  n't  native  sons.  They 
acted  like  sons  of  —  I  'd  hate  to  tell  you  what, 
Miss  —  to  the  chief  dollie  in  the  show.  They 
stole  her  beau  and  tied  him  to  the  S.P.  tracks; 
kind  of  loose,  though.  She  did  n't  seem  to  care. 
She  jest  stood  around  chewin'  gum  and  rollin'  her 
lamps  at  the  head  guy.  Then  the  movin'- 
picture  express,  which  was  a  retired  switch- 
engine  hooked  onto  a  Swede  observation  car, 
*backs  down  on  Adolphus,  and  we  was  to  rush  up 
like  —  pretty  fast,  and  save  his  life. 

"She  was  a  sassy  little  chicken  with  blond 
feathers  and  a  three-quarter  rig  skirt.  She  had 

28 


Any  Road  at  Any  Time 

a  regular  strawberry-ice-cream-soda  complexion, 
and  her  eyes  looked  like  a  couple  of  glass  alleys 
with  electric  lights  in  'em.  I  wondered  if  she  took 
'em  out  at  night  to  go  to  sleep  or  only  switched  off 
the  current.  Anyhow,  up  she  rides  in  a  big  reddish 
kind  of  automobile  and  twists  her  hands  round 
her  wrists  and  looks  up  the  track  and  down  the 
track  and  sees  us  and  says,  'Oh,  w'ich  way  has 
he  went?  W'ich  way  did  Disgustus  Adolphus 
beat  it  to?'  And  chewin'  gum  right  on  top  of 
that,  too.  It  was  tough  on  us,  Miss,  but  we 
needed  the  money. 

"  'Bout  the  eighteenth  time  she  comes  coughin* 
up  in  that  old  one-lung  machine,  —  to  get  her 
expression  right,  so  the  boss  kept  holler  in',  — • 
why,  I  gets  sick  and  tired.  If  there's  anything 
doin',  why,  I'm  game,  but  such  monkeyin'! 
There  was  that  picture-machine  idiot  workin'  the 
crank  as  if  he  was  shellin'  a  thicket-full  of  Injuns 
with  a  Catling,  and  his  fool  cap  turned  round 
with  the  lid  down  the  back  of  his  neck,  and  me 
and  Collie,  the  only  sensible-actin'  ones  of  the  lot, 
because  we  was  actin'  natural,  jest  restin'.  I  got 
sick  and  tired.  The  next  time  up  coughs  that 
crippled-up  automobile  with  the  mumps  on  its 
front  tire,  and  she  says,  'Where,  oh,  where  has  he 
went?'  I  ups  and  says,  'Crazy,  Miss,  and  can 
you  blame  him?' 

"She  did  n't  see  no  joke  in  that,  so  the  boss 

29 


Overland  Red 

he  fired  us.  He  was  n't  goin'  to  pay  us  at  that, 
but  I  picks  up  the  little  picture-machine  box  and 
I  swings  her  up  over  the  track  kind  of  suggestive 
like.  *  One! 'said  I.  'Do  we  get  our  money?' 

"'Drop  that  machine!'  says  he,  rushin'  up  to 
me. 

"'I'm  a-goin'  to,'  says  I,  'good  and  hard. 
Think  again,  while  I  count.  Do  we  get  our 
money?' 

'  You  get  pinched ! '  says  he. 

"'Two,'  says  I,  and  I  swings  the  box  up  by  the 
legs. 

"'Hole  on!'  yells  the  boss.  'Pay  the  mutt, 
Jimmy,  and,  for  Gord  sake,  get  that  machine 
before  he  ruins  the  best  reel  we  made  yet!' 

"We  got  paid." 

"But  the  bell  and  Moonstone  Canon?"  ques 
tioned  Louise,  glancing  back  at  Boyar  grazing 
down  the  meadow. 

"Sure!  Well,  we  flopped  near  here  that 
night—" 

"Flopped?" 

"Uhuh.  Let's  see,  you  ain't  hep  to  that,  are 
you?  Why,  we  crawled  to  the  hay,  hit  the 
feathers,  pounded  our  ear  —  er  —  went  to  bed ! 
That's  what  it  used  to  be.  Well,  in  the  morning, 
me  and  Collie  got  some  sardines  and  crackers  to 
the  store  and  a  little  coffee.  It  was  goin'  over 
there  that  we  seen  the  bell  and  the  road  and  the 

30 


Any  Road  at  Any  Time 

whole  works.  I  got  kind  of  interested  myself  in 
that  canon.  I  never  saw  so  many  moonstones 
layin'  right  on  top  the  gravel,  and  I  been  in 
Mex.,  too.  We  liked  it  and  we  stayed  over  last 
night,  expectin'  to  be  gone  by  now." 

"And  when  you  leave  here?"  queried  Louise. 

"Same  old  thing,"  replied  Overland  cheerfully. 
"I  know  the  ropes.  Collie  works  by  spells.  Oh, 
we're  livin',  and  that's  all  you  need  to  do  in 
California." 

"And  that  is  all —  now  that  you  have  found 
the  road?" 

"Oh,  the  road  is  like  all  of  them  dreams,"  said 
Overland.  "Such  things  are  good  for  keepin' 
people  interested  in  somethin'  till  it's  done, 
that's  all.  It  was  fun  at  first,  lookin'  up  every 
arroyo  and  slit  in  the  hills,  till  we  found  it. 
Same  as  them  marriages  on  the  desert,  after 
that." 

"Marriages?" 

"Uhuh.   Seein'  water  what  ain't  there,  like." 

"Oh,  mirages!"  And  Louise  laughed  joyfully. 

"I  don't  see  no  joke,"  said  Overland,  ag 
grieved. 

"I  really  beg  your  pardon." 

"That's  all  right,  Miss.  But  what  would  you 
call  it?" 

"Oh,  an  illusion,  a  mirage,  something  that 
seems  to  be,  but  that  is  not." 

31 


Overland  Red 

"I  don't  see  where  it's  got  anything  on  mar 
riages,  then,  do  you?  But  I  ain't  generally 
peppermistic.  I  believe  in  folks  and  things, 
although  I'm  old  enough  to  know  better." 

"I'm  glad  you  believe  in  folks,"  said  Louise. 
"So  do  I." 

"It's  account  of  bein'  a  pote,  I  guess,"  sighed 
the  tramp.  "  'Course  I  ain't  a  professional.  They 
got  to  have  a  license.  I  never  took  out  one,  not 
havin'  the  money.  Anyway,  if  I  did  have  enough 
money  for  a  regular  license,  I'd  start  a  saloon 
and  live  respectable." 

"Won't  you  quote  something?"  And  the  girl 
smiled  bewitchingly.  "Boyar  and  I  must  go 
soon.  It's  getting  hot.'* 

"  I  'm  mighty  sorry  you  're  goin',  Miss.  You  're 
real  California  stock.  Knowed  it  the  minute  I 
set  eyes  on  you.  Besides,  you  passed  us  the 
smokes." 

"Red,  you  shut  up!" 

Overland  turned  a  blue,  astonished  eye  on 
Collie.  "Why,  kiddo,  what's  bitin'  you?" 

"Because  the  lady  give  us  the  makings  don't 
say  she  smokes,  does  it?" 

Overland  grunted.  "Because  you're  foolish 
with  the  heat,  don't  say  I  am,  does  it?  Them 
sandwiches  has  gone  to  your  head,  Chico.  Who 
said  she  did  smoke?" 

Louise,   grave-eyed,   watched   the  two  men* 


Any  Road  at  Any  Time 

Overland  sullen  and  scowling,  Collie  fierce  and 
flaming. 

"We  ain't  used  to  —  to  real  ladies,"  apologized 
Overland.  "We  could  do  better  if  we  practiced 
up." 

"Of  course!"  said  Louise,  smiling.  "But  the 
poetry." 

"U-m-m,yes.  Thepo'try.  What '11 1  give  her, 
Collie?" 

"I  don't  care,"  replied  the  boy.  "You  might 
try  'Casey  Jones.'  It's  better 'n  anything  you 
ever  wrote." 

"That?  I  guess  not!  That  ain't  her  style. 
I  mean  one  of  my  own  —  somethin'  good." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  'Toledo  Blake,' "  mumbled 
Collie. 

"Nope!  But  I  guess  the  'Grand  Old  Privi 
lege'  will  do  for  a  starter." 

"Oh,  good!"  And  Louise  clapped  her  hands. 
"The  title  is  splendid.  Is  the  poem  original?" 

The  tramp  bowed  a  trifle  haughtily.  "Origi 
nal?  Me  life's  work,  lady."  And  he  awkwardly 
essayed  to  button  a  buttonless  coat,  coughed, 
waved  his  half-consumed  cigarette  toward  the 
skies,  and  began :  — 

"Folks  say  we  got  no  morals  —  that  they  all  fell  in  the 

soup; 
And  no  conscience  —  so  the  would-be  goodies  say; 

33 


Overland  Red 

And  I  guess  our  good  intentions  did  jest  up  and  flew  the 

coop, 
While  we  stood  around  and  watched  'em  fade  away. 

"But  there's  one  thing  that  we're  lovin'  more  than  money, 

grub,  or  booie, 

Or  even  decent  folks  that  speaks  us  fair; 
And  that's  the  Grand  Old  Privilege  to  chuck  our  luck  and 

choose, 
Any  road  at  any  time  for  any  where." 


And  Overland,  his  hand  above  his  heart, 
bowed  effusively. 

"I  like  'would-be  goodies,"  said  Louise. 
"Sounds  just  like  a  mussy,  sticky  cookie  that's 
too  sweet.  And  'Any  road  at  any  time  for  any 
where  — *  I  think  that  is  real/' 

Overland  puffed  his  chest  and  cleared  his 
throat.  "I  can't  help  it,  Miss.  Born  that  way. 
Cut  my  first  tooth  on  a  book  of  pomes  ma  got 
for  a  premium  with  Mustang  Liniment." 

"Well,  thank  you."  And  Louise  nodded  gayly. 
"Keep  the  tobacco  and  papers  to  remember  me 
by.  I  must  go." 

"We  don't  need  them  to  remember  you  by," 
said  Overland  gallantly.  Then  the  smile  suddenly 
left  his  face. 

Down  the  Old  Meadow  Trail,  unseen  by  the 
girl  and  the  boy,  rode  a  single  horseman,  and 
something  at  his  hip  glinted  in  the  sun.  Over 

34 


Any  Road  at  Any  Time 

land's  hand  went  to  his  own  hip.  Then  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  slowly  recovered 
himself.  "What's  the  use?"  he  muttered. 

But  there  was  that  in  his  tone  which  brought 
Collie's  head  up.  The  lad  pushed  back  his  bat 
tered  felt  hat  and  ran  his  fingers  through  his 
wavy  black  hair,  perplexedly.  "What's  the 
matter,  Red?  What's  the  matter?" 

"Nothin'.  Jest  thinkin'."  Yet  the  tramp's 
eyes  narrowed  as  he  glanced  furtively  past  the 
girl  to  where  Boyar,  the  black  pony,  grazed  in 
the  meadow. 

Louise,  puzzled  by  something  familiar  in  the 
boy's  upturned,  questioning  face,  raised  one 
gauntleted  hand  to  her  lips.  "Why,  you're  the 
boy  I  saw,  out  on  the  desert,  two  years  ago. 
Were  n't  you  lying  by  a  water-tank  when  our 
train  stopped  and  a  man  was  kneeling  beside 
you  pouring  water  on  your  face?  Aren't  you 
that  boy?" 

"Yes!"  exclaimed  Collie,  getting  to  his  feet. 
"Red  told  me  about  you,  too." 

;<Yes,  it's  her,"  muttered  Overland,  nodding 
to  himself. 

"And  you  chucked  a  rose  out  of  the  window  to 
us?"  said  the  boy.  "Overland  said  she  did." 

"Yes.  It's  her,  the  Rose-Lady  Girl,"  said 
Overland.  "Some  of  the  folks  in  the  train 
laughed  when  I  picked  up  the  rose.  I  remember. 

35 


Overland  Red 

Some  one  else  says,  'They're  only  tramps/    i 
recollect  that,  too." 

"But  those  men  were  arrested  at  Barstow,  for 
murder,  Uncle  Walter  said." 

Again  Overland  Red  nodded.  "They  was, 
Miss.  But  they  could  n't  prove  nothin',  so  they 
let  us  go." 

"We  always  was  goin'  to  say  thanks  to  the 
girl  with  the  rose  if  we  ever  seen  her,"  said  the 
boy  Collie.  "We  ain't  had  such  a  lot  of  roses 
give  to  us." 

"So  we  says  it  now,"  said  Overland  quickly. 
"Or  mebby  we  wouldn't  never  have  another 
chance."  Then  he  slowly  rolled  another  cigarette. 

Just  then  the  black  pony  Boyar  nickered.  He 
recognized  a  friend  entering  the  meadow. 

Overland  lighted  his  cigarette.  As  he  straight 
ened  up,  Louise  was  surprised  to  see  him  thrust 
both  hands  above  his  head  while  he  continued 
smoking  placidly.  "Excuse  me,  Miss,"  he  said, 
turning  the  cigarette  round  with  his  lips;  "but 
the  gent  behind  you  with  the  gun  has  got  the 
drop  on  me.  I  guess  he 's  waitin'  for  you  to  step 
out  of  range." 

Louise  turned  swiftly.  Dick  Tenlow,  deputy 
sheriff,  nodded  good-morning  to  her,  but  kept 
his  gun  trained  on  the  tramp. 

"Just  step  out  from  behind  that  rock,"  said 
Tenlow,  addressing  Overland. 

36 


Any  Road  at  Any  Time 

"Don't  know  as  I  will,"  replied  the  tramp. 
"You're  no  gentleman;  you  did  n't  say  "please." 

"Come  on!  No  bluff  like  that  goes  here,"  said 
the  deputy. 

"Can't  you  see  I  ain't  finished  smokin'  yet?" 
queried  Overland. 

"Come  on!  Step  along!" 

"  ISio  way  to  address  a  gent,  you  Johnny.  Say, 
I  '11  tell  you  now  before  you  fall  down  and  shoot 
yourself.  Do  you  think  you  got  me  because  you 
rode  "p  while  I  was  talkin'  to  a  lady,  and  butted 
into  r.olite  conversation  like  a  drunk  Swede  at  a 
dance?  Say,  you  think  I'd  'a'  ever  let  you  got 
this  fer  if  there  had  n't  been  a  lady  present? 
Why,  you  little  nickle-plated,  rubber-eared 
policeman,  I  was  doin'  the  double  roll  with  a 
pair  of  Colts  .45 's  when  you  was  learnin'  the 
taste  of  milk!" 

"That'll  be  about  all  for  you,"  said  the 
sheriff,  grinning. 

"No,  it  ain't.  You  ain't  takin'  me  serious,  and 
there's  where  you're  makin'  your  mistake.  I'm 
touchy  about  some  things,  Mr.  Pussy-foot.  I 
could  'a'  got  you  three  times  while  you  was  ridin' 
down  that  trail,  and  I  would  n't  'a'  had  to  stop 
talkin'  to  do  it.  And  you  with  that  little  old  gun 
out  before  you  even  seen  me!" 

"Why  didn't  you,  then?"  asked  Tenlow, 
restraining  his  anger;  for  Louise,  in  spite  of  her- 

37 


Overland  Red 

self,  had  smiled  at  Overland's  somewhat  pictur 
esque  resentment.  "Why  did  n't  you,  then?" 

"Huh!"  snorted  Overland  scornfully.  "Do 
you  suppose  I'd  start  anything  with  a  lady 
around?  That  ain't  my  style.  You're  a  kid. 
You'll  get  hurt  some  day." 

Deputy  Tenlow  scowled.  He  was  a  big  man, 
slow  of  tongue,  ordinarily  genial,  and  proverbi 
ally  stupid.  He  knew  the  tramp  was  endeavor 
ing  to  anger  him.  The  deputy  turned  to  Louise. 
"Sorry,  Miss  Lacharme,  but  I  got  to  take  him." 

"There's  really  nothing  to  hinder,  is  there?" 
Louise  asked  sweetly. 


CHAPTER  V 

"CAN  HE  RIDE?" 

THE  tramp  glanced  up,  addressing  the  dep 
uty.  "Yes,  even  now  there  is  something  to 
hinder,  if  I  was  to  get  busy."  Then  he  coolly 
dropped  his  arms  and  leaned  against  the  rock 
with  one  leg  crossed  before  the  other  in  a  manner 
sometimes  supposed  to  reflect  social  ease  and 
elegance.  "  But  I  'm  game  to  take  what 's  comin'. 
If  you'll  just  stick  me  up  and  extract  the  .38 
automatic  I  'm  packin'  on  my  hip,  —  and, 
believe  me,  she's  a  bad  Gat.  when  she's  in 
action,  —  why,  I  '11  feel  lots  better.  The  little 
gun  might  get  to  shootin'  by  herself,  and  then 
somebody  would  get  hurt  sure.  You  see,  I'm 
givin'  you  all  the  chance  you  want  to  take  me 
without  gettin'  mussed  up.  I'm  nervous  about 
firearms,  anyhow." 

Deputy  Dick  Tenlow  advanced  and  secured 
the  gun. 

"Now,"  said  Overland  Red,  heaving  a  sigh; 
"now,  I  ain't  ashamed  to  look  a  gun  in  the  face. 
You  see,  Miss,"  he  added,  turning  to  address  the 
girl,  "I  was  sheriff  of  Abilene  once,  in  the  ole 
red-eye,  rumpus  days.  I  have  planted  some  citi- 

39 


Overland  Red 

zens  in  my  time.  You  see,  I  kind  of  owe  the  ones 
I  did  plant  a  silent  apology  for  lettin'  this  here 
chicken-rancher  get  me  so  easy." 

"You  talk  big,"  said  Tenlow,  laughing.  "Who 
was  you  when  you  was  sheriff  of  Abilene,  eh?" 

"Jack  Summers,  sometimes  called  Red  Jack 
Summers,"  replied  Overland  quietly,  and  he 
looked  the  deputy  in  the  eye. 

"Jack  Summers!" 

Overland  nodded.  " Take  it  or  leave  it.  You'll 
find  out  some  day.  And  now  you  got  some  excuse 
for  packin'  a  gun  round  these  here  peaceful  hills 
and  valleys  the  rest  of  your  life.  You  took  Jack 
Summers,  and  there  ain't  goin'  to  be  a  funeral." 

Something  about  the  tramp's  manner  inclined 
the  deputy  to  believe  that  he  had  spoken  truth. 
"All  right,"  said  Tenlow;  "just  step  ahead. 
Don't  try  the  brush  or  I'll  drop  you." 

"  'Course  you  would,"  said  Overland,  stepping 
ahead  of  the  deputy's  pony.  "But  the  bunch 
you're  takin'  orders  from  don't  want  me  dead; 
they  want  me  alive.  I  ain't  no  good  all  shot  up. 
You  ought  to  know  that." 

"I  know  there's  a  thousand  dollars  reward  for 
you.  I  need  the  money." 

Overland  Red  grinned.  "It's  against  me 
morals  to  bet  —  with  kids.  But  I  '11  put  up  that 
little  automatic  you  frisked  off  me,  against  the 
thousand  you  expect  to  get,  that  you  don't  even 

40 


Can  He  Ride  ? 

get  a  long-range  smell  of  that  money.  Are  you 
on?" 

Tenlow  motioned  the  other  to  step  ahead. 

"I'm  bettin'  my  little  gun  to  a  thousand 
dollars  less  than  nothin'.  Ain't  you  game?  I'm 
givin'  you  the  long  end." 

"Never  mind,"  growled  Tenlow.  "You  can 
talk  later." 

The  boy  Collie,  recovering  from  his  surprise 
at  the  arrest,  stepped  up  to  the  sheriff.  "Where 
do  I  come  in?"  he  asked.  "You  can't  pinch  Red 
without  me.  I  was  with  him  that  time  the  guy 
croaked  out  on  the  Mojave.  Red  did  n't  kiH 
him.  They  let  us  go  once.  What  you  doin* 
pinchin'  us  again?  How  do  you  know  — " 

"Hold  on,  Collie;  don't  get  careless,"  said 
Overland.  "He  don't  know  nothin'.  He's  fol- 
lowin'  orders.  The  game's  up." 

Louise  whistled  Boyar  to  her  and  bridled  him. 
The  little  group  ahead  seemed  to  be  waiting  for 
her.  She  led  the  pony  toward  the  trail.  "Did  he 
do  it?"  she  asked  as  she  caught  up  with  Collie. 

"No,"  he  muttered.  "Red's  the  squarest  pal 
on  earth.  Red  tried  to  save  the  guy  —  out  there 
on  the  desert.  Gave  him  all  the  water  we  had, 
pretty  near.  He  dassent  to  give  him  all,  for 
because  he  was  afraid  it  would  kill  him.  The 
guy  fell  and  hit  his  head  on  the  rail.  Red  said  he 
was  dyin'  on  his  feet,  anyway.  Then  Red  lugged 

41 


Overland  Red 

me  clean  to  that  tank  where  you  seen  us  from 
the  train.  I  was  all  in.  I  guess  Red  saved  my 
life.  He  did  n't  tell  you  that." 

"Is  he  —  was  he  really  a  cowboy?  Can  he 
ride?"  asked  Louise. 

"Can  he  ride?  Say,  I  seen  him  ride  Cyclone 
once  and  get  first  money  for  ridin'  the  worst 
buckin'  bronc'  at  the  rodeo,  over  to  Tucson. 
Well,  I  guess!" 

"Boyar,  my  pony,  is  the  fastest  pony  in  the 
hills,"  said  Louise  pensively. 

"What  you  givin'  us?"  said  the  boy,  glancing 
at  her  sharply. 

"Nothing.  I  was  merely  imagining  some 
thing." 

"Red's  square,"  asserted  the  boy. 

"Sheriff  Tenlow  is  a  splendid  shot,"  murmured 
Louise,  with  apparent  irrelevance. 

They  had  crossed  the  meadow.  Ahead  of  the 
sheriff  walked  Overland,  his  slouch  gone,  his 
head  carried  high.  Collie  noted  this  unusual 
alertness  of  poise  and  wondered. 

"Don't  try  the  brush,"  cautioned  Tenlow,  also 
aware  of  Overland's  alertness. 

"When  I  leave  here,  I'll  ride.  Sabe?"  And 
Overland  stepped  briskly  to  the  trail,  turning  his 
back  squarely  on  the  alert  and  puzzled  sheriff. 

"He's  been  raised  in  these  hills,"  muttered  the 
tramp.  "He  knows  the  trails.  I  don't.  But  — 

42 


Can  He  Ride? 

I'd  like  to  show  that  little  Rose-Lady  Girl  some 
real  ridin'  once.  She's  a  sport.  I'd  ride  into  hell 
and  rake  out  the  fire  for  her.  ...  I  hate  to  — 
to  do  it — but  I  guess  I  got  to." 

"Step  up  there,"  said  Tenlow.  "What  you 
talkin'  about,  anyhow?" 

"Angels,"  replied  Overland.  "I  see  'em  once 
in  a  while."  And  he  glanced  back.  He  saw  Collie 
talking  to  the  girl,  who  stood  by  her  pony,  the 
reins  dangling  lightly  from  her  outstretched  hand. 

"Snake!"  screamed  Overland  Red,  leaping 
backward  and  flinging  up  his  arms,  directly  in 
the  face  of  the  deputy's  pony.  The  horse  reared. 
Overland,  crouching,  sprang  under  its  belly, 
striking  it  as  he  went.  Again  the  pony  reared, 
nearly  throwing  the  deputy. 

"Overland Limited ! "  shouted  the  tramp,  dash 
ing  toward  Boyar.  With  a  spring  he  was  in  the 
saddle  and  had  slipped  the  quirt  from  the  saddle- 
horn  to  his  wrist.  He  would  need  that  quirt,  as 
he  had  no  spurs. 

Round  swung  Tenlow,  cursing.  Black  Boyar 
shot  across  the  meadow,  the  quirt  falling  at  each 
jump.  The  tramp  glanced  back.  Tenlow's  right 
hand  went  up  and  his  gun  roared  once,  twice  .  .  . 

The  boy  Collie,  white  and  gasping,  threw  him 
self  in  front  of  Tenlow's  horse.  The  deputy 
spurred  the  pony  over  him  and  swept  down  the 
meadow. 

43 


Overland  Red 

Louise,  angered  in  that  the  boy  had  snatched 
Boyar's  reins  from  her  as  Overland  shouted, 
relented  as  she  saw  the  instant  bravery  in  the 
lad's  endeavor  to  stop  Tenlow's  horse.  She 
stooped  over  him.  He  rose  stiffly. 

"  Oh !  I  thought  you  were  hurt ! "  she  exclaimed. 

"Nope!  I  guess  not.  I  was  scared,  I  guess. 
Let's  watch  'em,  Miss!"  And  forgetful  of  his 
bruised  and  shaken  body,  he  limped  to  the  edge 
of  the  meadow,  followed  by  Louise.  "There  they 
go!"  he  cried.  "Red's  'way  ahead.  The  sheriff 
gent  can't  shoot  again  —  he's  too  busy  ridin'." 

"Boyar!  Boyar!  Good  horse!  Good  horse!'* 
cried  the  girl  as  the  black  pony  flashed  across  the 
steep  slope  of  the  ragged  mountain  side  like  a 
winged  thing.  "Boyar!  Boy!" 

She  shivered  as  the  loose  shale,  ploughed  by 
the  pony's  flying  hoofs,  slithered  down  the  slope 
at  every  plunge. 

"Can  he  ride?"  shouted  Collie,  wild  tears  of 
joy  in  his  eyes. 

Suddenly  Overland,  glancing  back,  saw  Tenlow 
stop  and  raise  his  arm.  The  tramp  cowboy  swung 
Black  Boyar  half-round,  and  driving  his  un- 
spurred  heels  into  the  pony's  ribs,  put  him 
straight  down  the  terrific  slope  of  the  mountain 
at  a  run. 

Tenlow's  gun  cracked.  A  spray  of  dust  rose 
instantly  ahead  of  Boyar. 

44 


Can  He  Ride  ? 

"Look!  Look!"  cried  Louise.  The  deputy, 
angered  out  of  his  usual  judgment,  spurred  his 
horse  directly  down  the  footless  shale  that  the 
tramp  had  ridden  across  diagonally.  "Look!  He 
can't —  The  horse — !  Oh!"  she  groaned  as 
Tenlow's  pony  stumbled  and  all  but  pitched 
headlong.  "The  other  man  —  knew  better  than 
that — "  she  gasped,  turning  to  the  boy.  "He 
waited  —  till  he  struck  rock  and  brush  before  he 
turned  Boyar." 

"Can  he  ride?"  shouted  Collie,  grinning.  But 
the  grin  died  to  a  gasp.  A  burst  of  shale  and  dust 
shot  up  from  the  hillside.  They  saw  the  flash  of 
the  cinchas  on  the  belly  of  Tenlow's  horse  as  the 
dauntless  pony  stumbled  and  dove  headlong 
down  the  slope,  rolling  over  and  over,  to  stop 
finally  —  a  patch  of  brown,  shapeless,  quivering. 

Below,  Overland  Red  had  curbed  Boyar  and 
was  gazing  up  at  a  spot  of  black  on  the  hillside  — 
Dick  Tenlow,  motionless,  silent.  His  sombrero 
lay  several  yards  down  the  slope. 

"Oh!  The  horse!"  cried  Louise,  chokingly, 
with  her  hand  to  her  breast. 

As  for  Dick  Tenlow,  lying  halfway  down  the 
hillside,  stunned  and  shattered,  she  had  but  a 
secondary  sympathy.  He  had  sacrificed  a  gallant 
and  willing  beast  to  his  anger.  The  tramp,  riding 
a  strange  pony  over  desperately  perilous  and 
unfamiliar  ground,  had  used  judgment.  "Your 

45 


Overland  Red 

friend  is  a  man!"  she  said,  turning  to  the  boy. 
"But  Dick  Tenlow  is  hurt  —  perhaps  killed. 
He  went  under  the  horse  when  it  fell." 

"I  guess  it's  up  to  us  to  see  if  the  sheriff  gent 
is  done  for,  at  that,"  said  the  boy.  "Mebby  we 
can  do  something." 

"You'll  get  arrested,  now,"  said  the  girl.  "If 
Dick  Tenlow  is  alive,  you  '11  have  to  go  for  help. 
If  he  is  n't  .  .  ." 

"I'll  go,  all  right.  I  ain't  afraid.  I  did  n't  do 
anything.  I  guess  I  '11  stick  around  till  Red  shows 
up  again,  anyhow." 

"You're  a  stranger  here.  I  should  go  as  soon 
as  you  have  sent  help,"  said  the  girl. 

"Mebby  I  better.  I'll  help  get  him  up  the  hill 
and  in  the  shade.  Then  I  '11  beat  it  for  the  doc, 
If  I  don't  come  back  after  that,"  he  said  slowly, 
flushing,  "it  ain't  because  I'm  scared  of  anything 
I  done." 

Far  down  in  the  valley  Boyar's  sweating  sides 
glistened  in  the  sun.  An  arm  was  raised  in  a 
gesture  of  farewell  as  the  tramp  swung  the  pony 
toward  the  town.  Much  to  her  surprise,  Louise 
found  herself  waving  a  vigorous  adieu  to  the 
distant  figure. 

The  tramp  Overland,  realizing  that  the  deputy 
was  badly  injured,  told  the  first  person  he  met 
about  the  accident,  advising  him  to  get  help  at 

46 


Can  He  Ride? 

once  for  the  deputy.  Then  he  turned  the  pony 
toward  the  foothills.  In  a  clump  of  grease  wood 
he  dismounted,  and,  leaving  the  reins  hanging  to 
the  saddle-horn,  struck  Black  Boyar  on  the 
flank.  The  horse  leaped  toward  the  Moonstone 
Trail.  The  tramp  disappeared  in  the  brush. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ADVOCATE   EXTRAORDINARY 

LOUISE  LACHARME,  more  beautiful  than 
roses,    strolled   across   the   vine-shadowed 
porch  of  the  big  ranch-house  and  sat  on  the 
porch  rail  opposite  her  uncle.  His  clear  blue  eyes 
twinkled  approval  as  he  gazed  at  her. 

Walter  Stone  was  fifty,  but  the  fifty  of  the 
hard-riding  optimist  of  the  great  outdoors.  The 
smooth  tan  of  his  cheeks  contrasted  oddly  with 
the  silver  of  his  close-cropped  hair.  He  appeared 
as  a  young  man  prematurely  gray. 

"How  is  Boyar?"  he  asked,  smiling  a  little  as 
Louise,  sitting  sideways  on  the  porch-rail,  swung 
her  foot  back  and  forth  quickly. 

"Oh,  Boy  is  all  right.  The  tramp  turned  him 
loose  in  the  valley.  Boy  came  home." 

"It  was  a  clever  bit  of  riding,  to  get  the  best  of 
Tenlow  on  his  own  range.  Was  Dick  very  badly 
hurt?"  queried  Walter  Stone. 

"Yes,  his  collar-bone  was  broken  and  he  was 
crushed  and  terribly  bruised.  His  horse  was 
killed.  When  I  was  down,  day  before  yester 
day,  the  doctor  said  Dick  would  be  all  right  in 
time." 

48 


Advocate  Extraordinary 

"How  about  this  boy,  the  tramp  boy  they 
arrested?" 

"Oh,"  said  Louise,  "that  was  a  shame!  He 
stayed  and  helped  the  doctor  put  Dick  in  the 
buggy  and  rode  with  him  to  town.  Mr.  Tenlow 
was  unconscious,  and  the  boy  had  to  go  to  hold 
him.  Then  the  boy  explained  it  all  at  the  store, 
and  they  arrested  him  anyway,  as  a  suspicious 
character.  I  should  have  let  him  go.  When  Mr. 
Tenlow  became  conscious  and  they  told  him  they 
had  the  boy,  he  said  to  keep  him  in  the  calaboose; 
that  that  was  where  he  belonged." 

"And  you  want  me  to  see 'what  I  can  do  for 
this  boy?" 

"I  did  n't  say  so."  And  Louise  tilted  her  chin. 

"Now,  sweetheart,  don't  quibble.  It  is  n't  like 
you." 

The  gray  silk-clad  ankle  flashed  back  and  forth. 
"Really,  Uncle  Walter,  you 'could  have  done 
something  for  the  boy  without  making  me  say 
that  I  wanted  you  to.  You  're  always  doing  some 
thing  nice  —  helping  people  that  are  in  trouble. 
You  don't  usually  have  to  be  asked." 

"Perhaps  I  like  to  be  asked  —  by  —  Louise.'* 

"You're  just  flattering   me,   I   know!    But. 
uncle,  if  you  had  seen  the  boy  jump  in  front  of 
Mr.  Tenlow's  horse  when  Dick  shot  at  the  tramp, 
—  and  afterwards  when  the  boy  helped  me  with 
Dick  and  stuck  right  to  him  clear  to  his  house,  — 

49 


Overland  Red 

why,  you  could  n't  help  but  admire  him.  Then 
they  arrested  him  —  for  what?  It's  a  shame! 
I  told  him  to  run  when  I  saw  the  doctor's  buggy 
coming." 

"Yes,  Louise;  the  boy  may  be  brave  and  lik 
able  enough,  but  how  are  we  to  know  what  he 
really  is?  I  don't  like  to  take  the  risk.  I  don't 
like  to  meddle  in  such  affairs." 

"Uncle  Walter!  Risk!  And  the  risks  you  used 
to  take  when  you  were  a  young  man.  Oh,  Aunty 
Eleanor  has  told  me  all  about  your  riding 
bronchos  and  the  Panamint  —  and  lots  of  things. 
I  won't  tell  you  all,  for  you'd  be  flattered  to 
pieces,  and  I  want  you  in  one  whole  lump  to- 
day." 

"Only  for  to-day,  Louise?" 

"Oh,  maybe  for  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow 
and  to-morrow.  But,  uncle,  only  last  week  you 
said  at  breakfast  that  the  present  system  of 
arrest  and  imprisonment  was  all  wrong.  That 
was  because  they  arrested  that  editor  who  was 
a  friend  of  yours.  But  now,  when  you  have  a 
chance  to  prove  that  you  were  in  earnest,  you 
don't  seem  a  bit  interested." 

"Did  I  really  say  all  that,  sweetness?" 

"Now  you  are  quibbling.  And  does  'sweet 
ness,'  mean  me,  or  what  you  said  at  breakfast? 
Because  you  said  'the  whole  damn  system';  and 
there  were  two  ladies  at  the  table.  Of  course, 

50 


Advocate  Extraordinary 

that  was  before  breakfast.    After  breakfast  you 
picked  a  rose  for  aunty,  and  kissed  me." 

Walter  Stone  laughed  heartily.  "But  I  do 
take  a  great  deal  of  interest  in  anything  that 
interests  you." 

Louise  slipped  lithely  from  the  porch-rail  and 
swung  up  on  the  broad  arm  of  his  chair,  snug 
gling  against  him  impetuously.  "I  know  you  do, 
uncle.  I  just  love  you!  I'll  stop  teasing." 

"I  surrender.  I'm  a  pretty  fair  soldier  at  long 
range,  but  this"  —  and  his  arm  went  round  her 
affectionately  —  "this  is  utter  defeat.  I  strike 
my  colors.  Then,  you  always  give  in  so  grace 
fully." 

"To  you,  perhaps,  Uncle  Walter.  But  I 
haven't  given  in  this  time.  I'm  just  as  inter 
ested  as  ever." 

"And  you  think  they  are  the  men  we  saw  out 
on  the  Mojave  by  the  water-tank?" 

"Oh,  I  know  it!  They  remembered  the  rose. 
They  spoke  of  it  right  away,  before  I  did." 

"Yes,  Louise.  And  you  remember,  too,  that 
they  were  arrested  at  Barstow  —  for  murder, 
the  conductor  said?" 

"That's  just  it!  The  boy  Collie  says  the 
tramp  Overland  Red  did  n't  kill  the  man.  He 
was  trying  to  save  him  and  gave  him  water.  If 
you  could  only  hear  what  the  boy  says  about 
it—" 

51 


Overland  Red 

"I  don't  suppose  it  would  do  any  harm/'  said 
the  rancher.  "I  dislike  to  use  my  influence. 
You  know,  I  practically  control  Dick  Tenlow's 
place  at  the  elections." 

"That's  just  why  he  should  be  willing  to  let 
the  boy  go,"  said  Louise  quickly. 

"  No,  sweetheart.  That 's  just  why  I  should  n't 
ask  Dick  to  do  anything  of  the  kind.  But  I  see 
I'm  in  for  it.  You  have  already  interested  your 
Aunt  Eleanor.  She  spoke  to  me  about  the  boy 
last  night." 

"Aunty  Eleanor  is  a  dear.  I  did  n't  really  ask 
her  to  speak  to  you." 

"No,"  he  said,  laughing.  "Of  course  not. 
You  're  too  clever  for  that.  You  simply  sow  your 
poppy-seed  and  leave  it  alone.  The  poppies 
come  up  fast  enough." 

Louise  laughed  softly.  "You're  pretending  to 
criticize  and  you  're  really  flattering,  —  deliber 
ately,  —  are  n't  you,  Uncle  Walter?" 

"Flattering?  And  you?" 

"Because  Aunt  Eleanor  said  you  could  be 
simply  irresistible  when  you  wanted  to  be.  I 
think  so,  too.  Especially  when  you  are  on  a 
horse." 

"Naturally.  I  always  did  feel  more  confident 
in  the  saddle.  I  could,  if  need  arose,  ride  away 
like  the  chap  in  Bobby  Burns's  verse,  you 
remember  — 

52 


Advocate  Extraordinary 

"He  gave  his  bridle-rein  a  shake, 
And  turned  him  on  the  shore, 
With,  *  Farewell,  forever  more,  my  dear, 
Farewell,  forever  more/  " 

"But  you  did  n't,  uncle.  Aunty  said  she  used 
to  be  almost  afraid  that  you'd  ride  away  with 
her,  like  Lochinvar." 

"Yes."  And  Walter  Stone  sighed  deeply. 

"Oh,  Uncle  Walter!  That  sounded  full  of 
regrets  and  things." 

"It  was.  It  is.  I'm  fifty." 

"  It  is  n't  fifty.  It 's  a  lack  of  exercise.  And  you 
would  n't  be  half  so  fine-looking  if  you  were  fat. 
I  always  sigh  when  I  don't  know  what  to  do. 
Then  I  just  saddle  Boy  and  ride.  And  I'll  never 
let  myself  get  fat." 

"A  vow  is  a  vow  —  at  sixteen." 

"Now  I  know  you  need  exercise.  You're  get 
ting  reminiscent,  and  that's  a  sign  of  torpid 
liver." 

Walter  Stone  laughed  till  the  tears  came. 
"Exercise!"  he  exclaimed.  "Ah!  I  begin  to 
divine  a  subtle  method  in  your  doctrine  of 
health.  Ah,  ha!  I  look  well  on  a  horse!  I  need 
exercise!  It's  a  very  satisfactory  ride  from  here 
to  town  and  back.  Incidentally,  Louise,  I  smell 
"a  rat.  I  used  to  be  able  to  hold  my  own." 

"It  isn't  my  fault  if  you  don't  now,"  said 
Louise,  snuggling  in  his  arm. 

53 


Overland  Red 

"That's  unworthy  of  you!"  he  growled,  his 
arm  tightening  round  her  slim  young  figure. 
"Tell  me,  sweetheart;  how  is  it  that  you  can  be 
so  thoroughly  practical  and  so  unfathomably  ro 
mantic  in  the  same  breath?  You  have  deliber 
ately  shattered  me  to  bits  that  you  might  mould 
me  nearer  to  your  heart's  desire.  And  your 
heart's  desire,  just  now,  is  to  help  an  unknown,  a 
tramp,  out  of  jail." 

Louise  pouted.  "  You  say  '  just  now '  as  though 
my  heart's  desires  were  n't  very  serious  matters 
as  a  rule.  You  know  you  would  n't  be  half  so 
happy  if  I  did  n't  tease  you  for  something  at 
least  once  a  week.  I  remember  once  I  did  n't  ask 
you  for  anything  for  a  whole  week,  and  you  went 
and  asked  Aunty  Eleanor  if  I  were  ill.  Besides, 
the  boy  needs  help,  whether  he  did  anything 
wrong  or  not.  Can't  you  understand?" 

"That's  Utopian,  Louise,  but  it  is  n't  generally 
practicable." 

"Then  make  it  individually  practicable,  uncle 
—  just  this  time.  Pshaw!  I  don't  believe  you're 
half-trying  to  argue.  Why,  when  Boyar  bucked 
you  off  that  time  and  ran  into  the  barb-wire, 
then  he  did  n't  need  doctoring  for  that  awful  cut 
on  his  shoulder,  because  he  had  done  wrong." 

"That  is  no  parallel,  Louise.  Boyar  did  n't 
know  any  better.  And  this  boy  is  not  sick  or 
injured." 

54 


Advocate  Extraordinary 

"How  do  you  know  that?  He's  down  in  that 
terribly  hot,  smelly  jail.  If  he  did  get  sick,  who 
would  know  it?" 

"And  Boyar  is  n't  a  human  being.    He  can't 


reason." 


"Oh,  Uncle  Walter!  I  thought  you  knew 
horses  better  than  that.  Boyar  can  reason  much 
better  than  most  people." 

"The  proof  being  that  he  prefers  you  to  any 
one  else?" 

"No,"  replied  Louise,  smiling  mischievously. 
"That  isn't  Boyar's  reason;  it's  his  affection. 
That's  different." 

"Yes,  quite  different,"  said  Walter  Stone.  "Is 
this  boy  good-looking?"  And  the  rancher  fum 
bled  in  his  pocket  for  a  cigar. 

Louise  slipped  from  the  arm  of  his  chair  and 
stood  opposite  him,  her  lips  pouted  teasingly,  the 
young  face  glowing  with  mischief  and  fun.  "Am 
I?"  she  asked,  curtsying  and  twinkling.  "'Cause 
if  you're  going  to  ride  down  to  the  valley  to  see 
the  boy  just  because  Beautiful  asked  you,  Beau 
tiful  will  go  alone.  But  if  you  come  because  / 
want  you,"  —  and  Louise  smiled  bewitchingly, 
—  "why,  Beautiful  will  come  too,  and  sing  for 
you  —  perhaps." 

"My  heart,  my  service,  and  my  future  are  at 
your  feet,  Senorita  Louisa,  my  mouse.  Are  your 
eyes  gray  or  green  this  morning?" 

55 


Overland  Red 

"Both,"  replied  Louise  quickly.  "Green  for 
spunk  and  gray  for  love.  That's  what  Aunty 
Eleanor  says." 

"Come  a  little  nearer.  Let  me  see.  No,  they 
are  quite  gray  now." 

"'Cause  why?"  she  cooed,  and  stooping, 
kissed  him  with  warm,  careless  affection.  "You 
always  ask  me  about  my  eyes  when  you  want  me 
to  kiss  you.  Of  course,  when  you  want  to  kiss 
me,  why,  you  just  come  and  take  'em." 

"My  esteemed  privilege,  sweetheart.  I  am 
your  caballero." 

"Did  Aunty  Eleanor?"  said  Louise. 

But  Walter  Stone  rose  and  straightened  his 
shoulders.  "That  will  do,  mouse.  I  can't  have 
any  jealousy  between  my  sweethearts." 

"Never!  And,  Uncle  Walter,  do  you  want 
to  ride  Major  or  Rally?  Rally  and  Boyar  get 
along  better  together.  I'll  saddle  Boy  in  a 

jiffy." 

To  ride  some  ten  miles  in  the  blazing  sun  of 
midsummer  requires  a  kind  of  anticipatory  forti 
tude,  at  fifty,  especially  when  one's  own  vine  and 
fig  tree  is  cool  and  fragrant,  embowered  in  blue 
flowers  and  graced  by,  let  us  say,  Louise.  And  a 
cigar  is  always  at  its  best  when  half-smoked.  But 
'vhen  Louise  came  blithely  leading  the  two  sad 
dle-ponies,  Black  Boyar  and  the  big  pinto  Rally, 

56 


Advocate  Extraordinary 

Walter  Stone  shook  an  odd  twenty  years  from  his 
broad  shoulders  and  swung  into  the  saddle 
briskly. 

From  the  shade  of  the  great  sycamore  warders 
of  the  wide  gate,  he  waved  a  gauntleted  salute  to 
Aunt  Eleanor,  who  stood  on  the  porch,  drawing 
a  leaf  of  the  graceful  moon-vine  through  her 
slender  fingers.  She  nodded  a  smiling  fare 
well. 

Louise  and  her  uncle  rode  as  two  lovers,  their 
ponies  close  together.  The  girl  swayed  to  Boyar's 
quick,  swinging  walk.  Walter  Stone  sat  the 
strong,  tireless  Rally  with  solid  ease. 

The  girl,  laughing  happily  at  her  triumph, 
leaned  toward  her  escort  teasingly,  singing  frag 
ments  of  old  Spanish  love-songs,  or  talking  with 
eager  lips  and  sparkling  eyes.  Of  a  sudden  she 
would  assume  a  demureness,  utterly  bewitching 
in  its  veiled  and  perfect  mimicry.  Quite  seri 
ously  he  would  set  about  to  overcome  this  de 
lightful  mood  of  hers  with  extravagant  vows  of 
lifelong  love  and  servitude,  as  though  he  were  in 
truth  her  chosen  caballero  and  she  his  Seflorita  of 
the  Rose. 

And  as  they  played  at  love-making,  hidden 
graces  of  the  girl's  sweet  nature  unfolded  to  him, 
and  deep  in  his  heart  he  wondered,  and  found 
lif e  good,  and  Youth  still  unspoiled  by  the  years, 
and  Louise  a  veritable  enchantress  of  infinite 

57 


Overland  Red 

moods,  each  one  adorable.  Golden-haired,  gray- 
eyed,  quick  with  sympathy,  sweetly  subtle  and 
subtly  sweet  was  Louise.  .  .  .  And  one  must 
worship  Youth  and  Beauty  and  Love,  even  with 
their  passing  bitter  on  one's  lips. 

But  to  Walter  Stone  no  such  bitterness  had 
come,  this  soldierly,  wise  caballero  escorting  his 
adorable  senorita  on  an  errand  of  mercy.  His  was 
the  heart  of  Youth,  eternal  and  undaunted 
Youth.  And  Beauty  was  hers,  of  the  spirit  as  well 
as  of  the  flesh.  And  Love  .  .  . 

"Why,  Louise !  There  are  tears  on  your  lashes, 
my  colleen!" 

"But  I  am  singing,  uncle."  And  she  smiled 
through  her  tears. 

"Sweetheart?" 

"Yes,  Uncle  Walter?" 

"What  is  it?  Tell  me." 

"I  wish  I  could.  I  don't  know.  I  think  I'm 
getting  to  be  grown  up  —  just  like  a  woman.  It 
—  it  makes  me  —  think  of  lots  of  things.  Let's 
ride."  And  her  silver  spurs  flashed. 

Boyar,  taken  quite  by  surprise,  grunted  as  he 
leaped  down  the  Moonstone  Trail.  He  resented 
this  undeserved  punishment  by  plunging  side 
ways  across  the  road.  Again  came  the  flash  of  the 
silver  spurs,  and  Walter  Stone  heard  Louise 
disciplining  the  pony. 

"Just  a  woman.  Just  like  a  woman,  "murmured 

58 


Advocate  Extraordinary 

the  rancher.  "Now,  Boyar,  and  some  others  of 
us,  will  never  quite  understand  what  that 
means."  And  with  rein  and  voice  he  lifted  the 
pinto  Rally  to  a  lope. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE   GIRL  WHO   GLANCED  BACK 

AT  the  crossroads  in  the  valley  stood  the 
local  jail,  or  "coop,"  as  it  was  more  de 
scriptively  called.  Unpainted,  isolated,  its  soli 
tary  ugliness  lacked  even  the  squalid  dignity 
commonly  associated  with  the  word  "jail."  The 
sun  pelted  down  upon  its  bleached,  unshaded 
roof  and  sides.  The  burning  air  ran  over  its 
warped  shingles  like  a  kind  of  colorless  fire. 

The  boy  Collie,  half -dreaming  in  the  suffocat 
ing  heat  of  the  place,  started  to  his  feet  as  the 
door  swung  open.  He  had  heard  horses  coming. 
They  had  stopped.  He  could  hardly  realize  that 
the  sunlight  was  swimming  through  the  close 
dusk  of  the  place.  But  the  girl  of  Moonstone 
Canon,  reining  Boyar  round,  was  real,  and  she 
smiled  and  nodded  a  greeting. 

"This  is  Mr.  Stone,  my  uncle,"  she  said.  "He 
wants  to  talk  with  you." 

With  a  glance  that  noted  each  unlovely  detail 
of  the  place,  the  broken  iron  bed,  the  cracked 
pitcher,  and  the  unspeakable  blankets,  Louise 
touched  her  pony  and  was  gone. 

Collie  rubbed  his  eyes,  blinking  in  the  sun  as 
he  stood  gazing  after  her. 

60 


The  Girl  Who  Glanced  Back 

Walter  Stone,  standing  near  the  doorway, 
noted  the  lad's  clear,  healthy  skin,  his  well- 
shaped  head  with  its  tumble  of  wavy  black  hair, 
and  the  luminous  dark  eyes.  He  felt  an  instant 
sympathy  for  the  boy,  a  sympathy  that  he 
masked  with  a  business-like  brusqueness.  "Well, 
young  man?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Come  outside.  It's  vile  in  there." 

Stone  led  his  pony  to  the  north  side  of  the 
"coop." 

Collie  followed. 

Away  to  the  west  he  saw  the  hazy  peaks.  A 
lake  of  burning  air  pulsed  above  the  flat,  hot 
floor  of  the  valley.  Over  there  lay  the  hills  and 
the  shade  and  the  road.  .  .  .  Somewhere  beyond 
was  Overland,  his  friend,  penniless,  hunted, 
hungry.  .  .  . 

"She  brung  you?"  queried  the  boy. 

"Yes.  I  have  seen  Tenlow,  the  sheriff.  He  is 
willing  to  let  you  go  at  my  request.  What  do  you 
intend  doing,  now  that  you  are  free?" 

"I  don'  know.   Find  Red,  I  guess." 

Walter  Stone  nodded.   "What  then?" 

"Oh,  stick  it  out  with  Red.  They'll  be  after 
him  sure  now.  Red  's  my  pal." 

"What  has  he  done  to  get  the  police  after 
him?" 

"Nothin5.  It's  the  bunch." 

61 


Overland  Red 

"The  bunch?" 

"  Uhuh.  Them  guys  out  on  the  Mojave.  But 
say,  are  you  workin'  me  to  get  next  to  Red  and 
get  him  pinched  again?" 

"  No.  You  don't  have  to  answer  me.  This  man 
Red  is  nothing  to  me,  one  way  or  the  other.  He 
took  Miss  Lacharme's  pony,  but  she  has  over 
looked  that.  I  thought,  perhaps,  you  might  care 
to  explain  your  position.  Perhaps  you  had  rather 
not.  You  may  go  now  if  you  wish." 

"Is  that  straight?" 

"Yes." 

For  several  tense  seconds  the  lad  gazed  at  his 
questioner.  Finally  his  gaze  shifted  to  the  hills. 
"I  guess  you're  straight,"  he  said  presently.  "I 
guess  she  would  n't  have  you  for  a  relation  if  you 
was  n't  straight." 

The  elder  man  laughed.  "That's  right  —  she 
would  n't,  young  man." 

"How's  the  sheriff  guy?"  asked  the  boy. 

"He's  getting  along  well  enough.  What  made 
you  ask?" 

"Oh,  nothin'.  I  hate  to  see  any  guy  get 
hurt." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  that.  I  begin  to 
think  you  are  a  bigger  man  than  he  is." 

"Me?"  And  Collie  flushed,  misunderstanding 
the  other's  drift.  "I  guess  you're  kiddin'." 

"No,  I  mean  it.  Mr.  Tenlow  still  seemed 

62 


The  Girl  Who  Glanced  Back 

pretty  hot  about  your  share  in  this  —  er  — • 
enterprise.  You  seem  to  have  no  hard  feelings 
against  him." 

"Huh!  He  shouldn't  to  be  sore  at  me.  I 
did  n't  spur  no  horse  onto  him  and  ride  him 
down  like  a  dog.  I  guess  Red  would  'a'  killed 
him  if  he'd  seen  it.  Say,  nobody  got  Red,  did 
they?" 

"I  have  n't  heard  of  it.  How  did  this  man  Red 
come  to  pick  you  up?  You're  pretty  young  to  be 
tramping." 

"Cross  your  heart  you  ain't  tryin'  to  queer 
Red?  You  ain't  tryin'  to  put  the  Injun  sign  on 
us,  are  you?" 

"No.  I  have  heard  all  about  the  Mojave 
affair  —  the  prospector  that  died  on  the  track  — 
and  the  arrest  of  Overland  Red  at  Barstow.  You 
told  my  niece  that  this  Overland  Red  was 
'square.'  How  did  you  come  to  be  mixed  up  in 
it?" 

"I  guess  I'll  have  to  tell  you  the  whole  thing, 
straight.  Red  always  said  that  to  tell  the  truth 
was  just  as  good  as  lyin',  because  nobody  would 
believe  us,  anyway.  And  if  a  fella  gets  caught 
tellin'  the  truth,  why,  he's  that  much  to  the 
good." 

"Well,  I  shall  try  and  believe  you  this  time," 
said  Stone.  "Miss  Lacharme  thinks  you're 
honest." 

63 


Overland  Red 

"A  guy  could  n't  lie  to  her!"  said  the  boy. 

"Then  just  consider  me  her  representative,* 
said  Stone,  smiling. 

Collie  squatted  in  the  meager  shade  of  the 
"coop." 

^Walter  Stone,  dropping  the  pony's  reins,  came 
and  sat  beside  the  lad.  There  was  something  in 
the  older  man's  presence,  an  unspoken  assurance 
of  comradeship  and  sincerity  that  annulled  the 
boy's  tendency  to  reticence  about  himself.  He 
began  hesitatingly,  "My  dad  was  a  drinkin'  man. 
Ma  died,  and  he  got  worse  at  it.  I  was  a  kid  and 
did  n't  care,  for  he  never  done  nothin'  to  me.  We 
lived  back  East,  over  a  pawnbroker's  on  Main 
Street.  One  day  pa  come  home  with  a  timetable. 
He  sat  up  'most  all  night  readin'  it.  Every  time  I 
woke  up,  he  was  readin'  it  and  talkin'  to  himself. 
That  was  after  ma  died. 

"In  the  mornin',  when  I  was  gettin'  dressed, 
he  come  over  and  says  to  take  the  needle  he  had 
and  stick  it  through  the  timetable  anywhere.  I 
was  scared  he  was  goin'  to  have  the  jimmies.  But 
I  took  the  needle  —  it  had  black  thread  in  it  — 
and  stuck  it  through  the  timetable.  He  opened 
the  page  and  laughed  awful  loud  and  queer. 
Albuquerque  was  where  the  needle  went  in.  He 
could  n't  say  the  name  right,  but  he  kept  lookin' 
at  it. 

"Then  he  went  out  and  was  gone  all  day  and 

64 


The  Girl  Who  Glanced  Back 

all  night.  When  he  come  back  he  showed  me  a 
whole  wad  of  money.  I  says,  'Where  did  you  get 
it? '  He  got  mad  and  tells  me  to  shut  up. 

"That  day  we  got  on  a  train.  I  says,  'Where 
are  we  goin'? '  and  he  says  to  never  mind,  and  did 
I  want  some  peanuts. 

"  We  kept  ridin'  and  ridin'  in  the  same  car,  and 
eatin'  bananas  and  san'wiches  and  sleepin'  set- 
tin'  up  at  nights.  I  was  just  about  sick  when  we 
come  to  Albuquerque.  You  see,  that  was  where 
the  needle  went  through  the  timetable,  and  dad 
said  we  would  get  off  there.  He  got  awful  drunk 
that  night. 

"Next  day  he  said  he  was  goin'  to  quit  liquor 
and  make  a  fresh  start.  I  knowed  he  would  n't, 
'cause  he  always  said  that  next  mornin'.  But  I 
guess  he  tried  to  quit.  I  don't  know. 

"One  night  he  did  n't  come  back  to  the  room 
where  we  was  stayin'  upstairs  over  the  saloon* 
They  found  him  'way  down  the  track  next  day, 
all  cut  to  pieces  by  the  train." 

The  boy  paused,  reached  forward,  and  plucked 
a  withered  stem  of  grass  which  he  wound  round 
and  round  his  finger. 

Walter  Stone  sat  looking  across  the  valley. 

"I  guess  his  money  was  all  gone,"  resumed  the 
boy.  "Anyhow,  'bout  a  year  after,  Overland 
Red  comes  along.  He  comes  to  the  saloon  where 
I  was  stayin',  —  they  give  me  a  job  cleanin'  out 

65 


Overland  Red 

every  day,  —  and  he  got  to  talkin'  a  lot  of  stutf 
about  scenery  and  livin'  the  simple  life,  and  all 
that  guff.  The  bartender  got  to  jawin'  with  him, 
and  I  laughed,  and  the  bartender  hits  me  a  lick  side 
the  head.  Red,  he  hits  the  bartender  a  lick  side 
of  his  head  —  and  the  bartender  don't  get  up 
right  away.  'I  '11  learn  him  to  hit  kids,'  said  Red. 
'If  you  learn  him  to  hit  'em  as  hard  as  that,'  I 
says  to  Red,  'then  it  will  be  all  off  with  me  the 
next  time.' 

"'Does  he  hit  you  very  often?'  said  Red. 

"'Whenever  he  feels  like  it,'  I  told  him. 

"Red  laughed  and  said  to  come  on.  I  was  sick 
of  there,  so  I  run  away  with  Red.  We  tried  it  on 
a  freight  and  got  put  off.  Red  had  some  water  in 
a  canteen  he  swiped.  It  was  lucky  for  us  he  did. 
We  kept  walkin'  and  goin'  nights,  and  mebby 
ridin'  on  freights  in  the  daytime  if  we  could.  One 
day,  a  long  time  after  that,  we  was  crossin'  the 
desert  again.  We  got  put  off  a  freight  that  time, 
too.  We  was  walkin'  along  when  we  found  a  guy 
layin'  beside  the  track.  Red  said  he  was  n't  dead, 
but  was  dyin'.  We  give  him  some  water.  Then 
he  kind  of  come  to  and  wanted  to  drink  it  all. 
Red  said,  'No.'  Then  the  guy  got  kind  of  crazy. 
He  got  up  and  grabbed  Red.  I  was  scared. 

"  Red,  he  passed  me  the  canteen  and  told  me  to 
keep  it  away  from  the  guy  because  more  water 
would  kill  him.  Then  the  guy  went  for  Red. 

66 


The  Girl  Who  Glanced  Back 

'He's  dyin'  on  his  feet/  said  Red.  'It's  his  last 
flash.'  And  he  tried  to  hold  the  guy  quiet,  talkin' 
decent  to  him  all  the  time.  They  was  staggerin' 
around  when  the  guy  tripped  backwards  over  the 
rail.  His  head  hit  on  the  other  rail  and  Red  fell  on 
top  of  him.  Anyway,  the  guy  was  dead." 

Walter  Stone  shifted  his  position,  turning  to 
gaze  at  the  boy's  white  face.  "Yes  —  go  on,"  he 
said  quietly. 

"Red  was  for  searchin'  the  guy,  but  I  says  to 
come  on  before  we  got  caught.  Red,  he  laughed 
kind  of  queer,  and  asked  me,  'Caught  at  what?' 
Then  I  said,  'I  dunno,'  but  I  was  scared. 

"Anyway,  he  went  through  the  dead  guy's 
clothes  and  found  some  papers  and  old  letters 
and  a  little  leather  bag  with  a  whole  lot  of  gold- 
dust  in  it.  Red  said  mebby  five  hundred  dol 
lars!" 

"Gold-dust?" 

"Uhuh!  Then  Red  was  scared.  He  buried  the 
bag  and  the  papers  'way  out  in  the  sand  and  made 
a  mark  on  the  ties  to  find  it  by." 

"Did  you  find  out  the  dead  man's  name?" 
asked  Stone,  glancing  curiously  at  the  boy. 

"Nope.  We  just  beat  it  for  the  next  station.  I 
was  feelin'  sick.  I  give  out,  and  Red,  he  lugged 
me  to  the  next  water-tank.  He  was  pourin' 
water  on  me  when  the  Limited  come  along  and 
stopped,  and  she  throwed  the  rose  to  us.  Red 

67 


Overland  Red 

told  me  about  it  after.  You  would  n't  go  back  on 
a  pal  like  that,  would  you?" 

"No,  I  don't  know  that  I  should." 

"That's  me!"  said  the  boy.  "Then  they  went 
to  work  and  pinched  us  at  Barstow.  Said  we 
killed  the  guy  because  his  head  was  smashed  in 
where  he  hit  the  rails.  They  tried  to  make  Red 
say  that  he  robbed  the  guy  after  killin'  him.  But 
Red  told  everything,  except  he  did  n't  tell  about 
the  letters  and  the  gold-dust.  They  tried  to 
make  me  say  it,  but  I  dassent.  I  knowed  they 
would  fix  Red  sure  if  I  did,  and  he  told  me  not  to 
tell  about  the  gold  if  they  did  pinch  us." 

"They  let  you  go  —  after  the  police  examina 
tion.  Then  how  is  it  that  the  authorities  are 
after  you  again?" 

"It's  the  bunch,"  replied  the  boy.  "Them 
guys  out  there  knowed  the  dead  guy  had  a  mine 
or  a  ledge  or  somethin'  where  he  got  the  gold. 
Nobody  was  wise  to  where.  They  told  at  the  jail 
how  he  used  to  come  in  once  in  a  while  and  send 
his  dust  to  Los  Angeles  by  the  express  company. 
All  them  guys  like  the  sheriff  and  the  station 
agent  and  all  the  people  in  that  town  are  workin' 
tryin'  to  find  out  where  the  gold  come  from. 
They  think  because  Red  and  me  is  tramps  that 
they  can  make  us  tell  and  arrest  us  whenever 
they  like.  But  even  Red  don't  know,  unless  it's 
in  the  papers  he  hid  in  the  sand." 

68 


The  Girl  Who  Glanced  Back 

"That  sounds  like  a  pretty  straight  story," 
said  Stone.  "So  you  intend  to  stick  to  this  man 
Red?" 

"Sure!  Would  you  quit  him  now,  when 
they're  after  him  worst?" 

"They  wiU  get  him  finally." 

"Mebby.  But  Red's  pretty  slick  at  a  get 
away.  If  they  do  pinch  him  again,  that's  where 
I  come  in.  I'm  the  only  witness  and  the  only 
friend  he's  got." 

"Of  course.  But  don't  you  see,  my  boy,  that 
your  way  of  living  is  so  much  against  you  that 
you  could  n't  really  help  him?  A  man's  naked 
word  is  worth  just  what  his  friends  and  neigh 
bors  will  allow  him  for  it,  and  no  more." 

"But  ain't  a  guy  got  no  rights  in  this  coun- 
try?" 

"Certainly  he  has.  But  he  has  to  prove  that 
he  is  entitled  to  them,  by  his  way  of  living." 

"Then  he's  got  to  go  to  church,  and  work,  and 
live  decent,  or  he  don't  get  a  square  deal,  hey?" 

"But  why  should  n't  he  do  that  much?" 

Collie  did  not  answer.  Instead,  he  inspected 
his  questioner  critically  from  head  to  foot.  "I 
guess  you're  right,"  he  said  finally.  "I've  heard 
folks  talk  like  that  before,  but  I  never  took  no 
stock.  They  kind  of  said  it  because  they  knowed 
it.  I  guess  you  say  it  because  you  mean  it." 

"Of  course  I  do,"  said  Stone  heartily.  "Well, 

69 


Overland  Red 

* 
here  comes  my  niece  with  the  mail.   See!   Over 

there  is  El  Camino  Real,  running  north.  My 
ranch  is  up  there,  in  the  hills.  My  foreman's 
name  is  Williams.  If  you  should  ask  him  for 
work,  I  believe  he  might  give  you  something  to 
do.  I  heard  him  say  he  needed  a  man,  not  long 
ago." 

Walter  Stone  cinched  up  the  saddle  and 
mounted  his  pony.  The  boy's  eyes  shone  as  he 
gazed  at  the  strong,  soldierly  figure.  Ah,  to  look 
like  that,  and  ride  a  horse  like  that! 

Boyar,  the  black  pony,  clattered  up  and 
stopped.  "Hello,  folks!"  said  Louise,  purposely 
including  the  boy  in  her  greeting. 

Collie  flushed  happily.  Then  a  bitterness  grew 
in  his  heart  as  he  thought  of  his  friend  Overland, 
hunted  from  town  to  town  by  the  same  law  that 
protected  these  people  —  an  unjust  law  that 
they  observed  and  fostered. 

"Well?"  said  Stone. 

Collie's  gaze  was  on  the  ground.  "I  don' 
know,"  he  muttered.  "I  don'  know." 

"Well,  good  luck  to  you!"  And  the  ponies 
swung  into  that  philosophical  lope  of  the 
Western  horse  who  knows  his  journey's  length. 

The  figures  of  the  riders  grew  smaller.  Still  the 
boy  stood  in  the  road,  watching  them.  Unde 
cided,  he  gazed.  Then  came  an  answer  to  his 
stubborn  self-questioning.  Louise  glanced  back 

70 


The  Girl  Who  Glanced  Back 

—  glanced  back  for  an  instant  in  mute  sympathy 
with  his  loneliness. 

Slowly  the  boy  turned  and  entered  the  jail. 
He  folded  his  coat  over  his  arm,  stepped  outside, 
and  closed  the  door. 

Before  him  stretched  the  hot  gray  level  of 
El  Camino  Real,  the  road  to  the  beyond.  From 
it  branched  a  narrower  road,  reaching  up  into 
the  southern  hills,  —  on,  up  to  the  mysterious 
Moonstone  Canon  with  its  singing  stream  and 
its  gracious  shade.  Somewhere  beyond,  higher, 
and  in  the  shadowy  fastness  of  the  great  ranges 
lay  the  Moonstone  Ranch  .  .  .  her  home. 

"I  guess,  steppin'  up  smart,  I'll  be  there  just 
about  in  time  for  supper,"  said  the  boy.  And 
whistling  cheerily,  he  set  his  feet  toward  the 
south  and  the  Moonstone  Trail. 


CHAPTER  VHI 

THE   TEST 

AFTER  a  week  of  weeding  in  the  vegetable 
garden,  Collie  was  put  to  work  repairing 
fence.  There  were  many  miles  of  it,  inclosing 
some  twenty  thousand  acres  of  grazing-land,  and 
the  cross-fencing  of  the  oat,  alfalfa,  fruit,  and 
vegetable  acreage.  The  fence  was  forever  in  need 
of  repair.  The  heavy  winter  rains,  torrential  in 
the  mountains,  often  washed  away  entire  hill 
sides,  leaving  a  dozen  or  so  staggering  posts  held 
together  by  the  wires,  tangled  and  sagging.  Cat 
tle  frequently  pulled  loosened  posts  from  the 
earth  by  kneeling  under  the  wire  and  working 
through,  oblivious  to  the  barbs.  Again,  "stock 
gone  a  little  loco"  would  often  charge  straight 
through  the  rigid  and  ripping  wire  barriers  as 
though  their  strands  were  of  thread.  Posts  would 
split  in  the  sun,  and  staples  would  drop  out, 
leaving  sagging  spaces  which  cattle  never  failed 
to  find  and  take  advantage  of.  Trees  uprooted  by 
the  rain  and  wind  would  often  fall  across  the  fence. 
Altogether,  the  maintaining  of  a  serviceable 
fence-line  on  a  well-ordered  ranch  necessitates 
eternal  vigilance. 

72 


The  Test 

The  Moonstone  Rancho  was  well  ordered 
under  the  direct  supervision  of  Walter  Stone's 
foreman,  "Brand"  Williams.  Williams  was  a 
Wyoming  cowman  of  the  old  school;  taciturn, 
lean,  sinewy. 

Some  ten  years  before,  Williams,  seeking  em 
ployment,  had  ridden  over  the  range  with  Stone. 
Returning,  the  cowman  remarked  disconso 
lately,  "I  like  your  stock,  and  I'll  tie  to  you. 
But,  say,  it's  only  playin'  at  ranchin'  on  twenty 
thousand  fenced.  I  was  raised  in  Wyoming." 

"All  right,"  Stone  had  replied.  "Play  hard 
and  we'll  get  along  first-rate." 

Every  inch  of  Brand  Williams's  six  feet  was 
steeped  in  the  astringent  of  experience.  He 
played  hard  and  prospered,  as  did  his  employer. 

Collie  stood  awaiting  the  foreman's  instruc 
tions. 

"Ever  mend  fence?"  asked  Williams. 

"Nope." 

"  Good.  Then  you  can  learn  right.  Go  rope  a 
cayuse  —  get  some  staples  and  that  leetle  axe  m 
my  office,  and  go  to  it.  There's  plenty  fence." 

The  "Go  rope  a  cayuse"  momentarily  stag> 
gered  the  boy,  but  he  went  silently  to  the  corral^ 
secured  a  riata,  and  by  puzzling  the  playful 
ponies  by  his  amateur  tactics  he  finally  entan* 
gled  "Baldy,"  a  white-faced  cow-pony  of  peace** 
ful  mien  but  uncertain  disposition. 

73 


Overland  Red 

Williams,  watching  the  performance,  lazily 
rolled  a  straw-paper  cigarette. 

Snubbed  to  the  post,  bridled  and  saddled  awk 
wardly,  Baldy  gave  no  outward  sign  of  his  malig 
nant  inward  intent  of  getting  rid  of  the  lad  the 
minute  he  mounted. 

Williams  slowly  drew  a  match  across  his 
sleeve  from  elbow  to  wrist,  ending  with  a  flame 
that  was  extremely  convenient  to  his  cigarette. 
He  wasted  no  effort  at  anything.  He  was  a  man 
who  never  met  a  yawn  halfway,  but  only  gave  in 
to  it  when  actually  obliged  to.  Collie  climbed 
into  the  saddle  and  started  for  the  corral  gate. 
He  arrived  there  far  ahead  of  the  horse.  He  got 
to  his  feet  and  brushed  his  knees.  The  pony  was 
humping  round  the  corral  with  marvelous  agility 
for  so  old  a  horse. 

"He  never  did  like  a  left-handed  man,"  said 
Williams  gravely.  "Next  time  get  on  him  from 
the  other  side,  and  see  if  he  don't  behave.  Hold 
on;  don't  be  in  a  hurry.  Let  him  throw  a  few 
more  jumps,  then  he'll  quit  for  to-day  most 
likely.  And  say,  son,  if  he  does  take  to  buckin* 
with  you  again,  don't  choke  that  saddle  to  death 
hangin'  on  to  the  horn.  Set  up  straight,  lean  a 
little  back,  and  clinch  your  knees.  You'll  get 
piled,  anyhow,  but  you  might  as  well  start 
right." 

The  boy  approached  the  horse  again,  secured 

74 


The  Test 

the  dangling  reins,  and  again  mounted.  Baldy 
was  as  demure  as  a  spinster  in  church.  He 
actually  looked  pious. 

Collie  urged  the  pony  toward  the  gate.  Baldy 
reared. 

"A  spade  bit  ain't  made  to  pull  teeth  with, 
although  you  can,"  said  Williams.  "  Baldy 's  old, 
but  his  teeth  are  all  good  yet.  Just  easy  now. 
Ride  in  your  saddle,  not  on  your  reins.  That's 
it !  And  say,  kid,  I  would  'a'  got  them  staples  and 
that  axe  before  crawlin'  the  hoss,  eh?" 

Collie  flushed.  He  dismounted  and  walked  to 
the  foreman's  office.  When  he  returned  to  the 
corral,  the  horse  was  gone.  Williams  still  sat  on 
the  corral  bars  smoking  and  gazing  earnestly  at 
nothing. 

Round  the  corner  of  the  stable  Collie  saw  the 
pony,  his  nose  peacefully  submerged  in  the 
water-trough,  but  his  eye  wide  and  vigilant. 
The  boy  ran  toward  him.  Baldy  snorted  and, 
wheeling,  ran  back  into  the  corral,  circled  it  with 
an  expression  which  said  plainly,  "Let  us  play  a 
little  game  of  tag,  in  which,  my  young  friend, 
you  shall  always  be  'It." 

Again  Collie  tried  to  rope  the  pony. 

"Want  any  help?"  asked  Williams,  as  he  slid 
from  the  corral  bars  to  the  ground. 

"Nope."  And  Collie  disentangled  his  legs  from 
an  amazing  contortion  of  the  riata  and  tried 

75 


Overland  Red 

to  whirl  the  loop  as  he  had  seen  the  cowmen 
whirl  it. 

"Hold  on,  son!"  said  Williams.  "You  mean 
right,  but  don't  go  to  rope  him  with  the  saddle 
on.  If  you  looped  that  horn,  he,  like  as  not, 
would  yank  you  clean  to  Calabasas  before  you 
got  your  feet  out  of  that  mess  of  rope  you're 
standin'  in.  Anyway,  you  ain't  goin'  to  Cala 
basas;  you're  due  up  the  other  way." 

Collie  was  learning  things  rapidly,  and,  better 
still,  he  was  learning  in  a  way  that  would  cause 
him  to  remember. 

Williams  spoke  sharply  to  the  pony.  Baldy 
stopped  and  eyed  the  foreman  with  vapid  in- 
quisitiveness.  "Now,  son,  I  got  three  things  to 
tell  you,"  and  the  foreman  gathered  up  the  reins. 
"First  —  keep  on  keepin'  your  mouth  shut  and 
tendin'  to  business.  It  pays.  Second  —  always 
drop  your  reins  over  a  boss's  head  when  you  get 
off,  whether  he's  trained  that  way  or  not.  And 
last  —  always  figure  a  hoss  thinks  he  knows 
more  than  you  do.  Sometimes  he  does.  Some 
times  he  don't.  Then  he  won't  fool  you  so  fre 
quent,  for  you'll  be  watchin'  him.  I  wouldn't 
'a'  said  that  much,  only  you  're  a  tenderfoot  from 
the  East,  I  hear.  If  you  was  a  tenderfoot  from 
the  West,  you  would  'a'  had  to  take  your  own 
medicine." 

Collie's  shoulder  was  lame  from  his  fall  and 

76 


The  Test 

was  becoming  stiff,  but  he  grinned  cheerfully, 
and  said  nothing,  which  pleased  Williams. 

The  foreman  leveled  his  slow,  keen  eyes  at  him 
for  a  minute.  "You'll  find  a  spring  under  the 
live-oaks  by  the  third  cross-fence  north.  Reckon 
you'll  get  there  about  noon.  Keep  your  eye 
peeled  for  fire.  I  thought  I  seen  somebody  up 
there  as  I  come  across  from  the  corral  early  this 
mornin'.  We  come  close  to  burnin'  out  here  once, 
account  of  a  hobo's  fire.  Understand,  if  you 
ketch  anybody  cantelopin'  around  a-foot,  you 
just  ride  'em  off  the  range  pronto.  That's  all." 

As  Collie  rode  away  through  the  morning  sun 
shine,  Williams  loafed  across  the  corral,  roped 
and  saddled  a  white-eyed  pinto,  and,  spurring 
up  a  narrow  canon  west  of  the  ranch  buildings, 
disappeared  round  a  turn  of  the  shady  trail.  As 
the  foreman  rode,  he  alternately  talked  to  the 
pony  and  himself. 

"Tramp,  eh?"  he  said,  addressing  the  pony. 
"What  do  you  say,  Sarko?  Nothin',  eh?  Same 
as  me.  .  .  .  Overland  Red's  kid  pal,  eh?  Huh!  I 
knowed  Jack  Summers,  Red  Jack  Summers,  down 
in  Sonora  in  '83.  Mexico  was  some  open  country 
then.  Jack  was  a  white  pardner,  too.  Went  to  the 
bad,  account  of  that  Chola  girl  that  he  was 
courtin'  goin'  wrong.  .  .  .  Funny  how  the  boss 
come  to  pick  up  that  kid.  Thinks  there's  some- 
thin'  in  him.  O'  course  they  is.  But  what?  Eh, 

77 


Overland  Red 

Sarko,  what?  You  say  nothin',  same  as  me.  .  .  . 
Here,  you !  That 's  a  lizard,  you  fool  boss.  Never 
seen  one  before,  so  you're  tryin'  to  catch  it  by 
jumpin'  through  your  bridle  after  it,  eh?  Never 
seen  one  before,  oh,  no!  Don't  like  that,  eh? 
Well,  you  quit,  and  I  will.  Exactly.  It's  me,  and 
my  ole  Spanish  spurs.  I'm  listenin'.  .  .  .  No- 
thin'  to  say?  .  .  .  Uhuh!  I  reckon  little  Louise 
had  somethin'  to  do  with  gettin'  the  kid  the  job. 
Well,  if  she  likes  him,  I  got  to.  Guess  I'd  love  a 
snake  if  she  said  to.  Yes,  I'm  listenin'  to  my 
self  ..."  And  the  taciturn  foreman's  hard, 
weathered  face  wrinkled  in  a  smile.  "I'm  lis 
tenin'  .  .  .  None  of  the  boys  know  Red 's  camped 
up  by  the  spring.  I  do.  Red  used  to  be  a  damn 
white  Injun  in  the  old  days.  I'll  give  the  kid  a 
chance  to  put  him  wise  for  old  times.  And  I'll 
find  out  if  the  kid  means  business  or  not  .  .  . 
which  is  some  help  to  know  how  to  handle  him 
later." 

Williams  picketed  his  pony  in  the  meadow 
above  the  third  cross-fence.  Loafing  down  the 
slope  toward  the  spring,  he  noticed  the  faint 
smoke  of  a  fire.  Farther  down  the  line  fence,  he 
could  see  Collie  in  the  distance,  riding  slowly 
toward  the  three  live-oaks.  The  foreman  found 
a  convenient  seat  on  a  ledge,  rolled  another  of 
his  eternal  cigarettes,  and  watched  the  boy 
approach  from  below. 

78 


The  Test 

Collie  had  already  dismounted  three  times 
that  morning;  twice  to  mend  fence,  and  once 
more  involuntarily.  He  determined,  with  a 
mighty  vow  to  the  bow-legged  god  of  all  horse 
flesh,  to  learn  to  stay  on  a  broncho  or  die  learn 
ing. 

The  boy  had  a  native  fondness  for  animals, 
and  he  had  already  thought  of  buying  a  pony 
with  his  first  few  months'  wages.  But  the  vision 
of  his  erstwhile  companion  Overland,  perhaps 
imprisoned  and  hopeless  in  the  grip  of  the 
"bunch,"  annulled  that  desire.  He  would  save 
every  cent  for  that  emergency. 

Arrived  at  the  spring,  both  boy  and  horse 
drank  gratefully,  for  the  day  was  hot.  Then 
Collie  noticed  the  thin  smoke  coming  through 
the  trees  and  strode  toward  it. 

"It  ain't  much  of  a  fire  yet,"  said  Overland. 
"Our  hired  girl-  '  and  he  grinned  through  a 
two-weeks'  tangle  of  red  beard.  "Oh,  but  ain't 
he  the  'cute  little  workin'-man  with  his  little  ole 
hoss  and  his  garments  of  toil." 

"Oh,  Red!"  exclaimed  the  boy. 

"Me  sure!  I  been  hidin'  in  my  whiskers  so 
long  I  did  n't  know  if  you'd  know  me." 

"I  been  thinking  about  you  every  day." 

"Uhuh.  So  have  I.  I  reckon  some  others  has, 
too.  Say,  what  you  been  doin'  lately,  studyin' 
law  or  learnin'  the  piano?  I  been  lookin'  for  you 

79 


Overland  Red 

for  a  week.  It's  the  first  day  I  seen  you  out  on 
the  range." 

"I  was  working  in  the  garden  first.  Then  they 
put  me  at  this,  this  mornin'." 

"Uhuh.  Well,  Col,  that  there  get-away  of 
mine  is  in  all  the  papers.  'Tramp  Cowboy  Steals 
Horse  and  Escapes.'  Say,  did  she  yip  about  my 
borrowin'  the  cay  use?" 

"She  was  mad  at  first.  But  your  fancy  ridin* 
kind  of  made  her  forget.  I  told  her  you  was 
square,  Red." 

"Huh!  I  guess  she  could  tell  that  herself." 

"But,  Red,  I'm  not  kidding.  I  told  her  uncle 
about  the  bunch  and  the  guy  on  the  desert." 

"Did  he  believe  it?" 

"I  guess  so.  He  ain't  said  much.  But  he  gives 
me  the  chance  to  make  good.  He  must  have  be 
lieved  somethin'." 

"Well,  stick  to  it,  Collie.  You  never  was  cut 
out  for  a  genuine  towerist  like  me,  anyhow.  It 
ain't  in  your  blood." 

"What  you  goin'  to  do  now,  Red?" 

"Me?  Listen!  There's  gold  out  there,  some 
where.  I'm  broke  now.  I  need  some  dough.  I 
got  ideas.  Ten  dollars  does  it.  I  get  a  new  set  of 
clothes  and  get  shaved  and  me  hair  trimmed 
close.  Then  I  commence  me  good  work  in  Main 
Street,  in  Los.  Down  on  North  Main  is  where  I 
catch  the  gent  from  the  East  who  will  fall  for 

80 


The  Test 

anything  that  wears  a  Stetson  and  some  outdoors 
complexion.  I  tell  all  about  my  ledge  in  the 
Mojave  and  get  staked  to  go  out  and  prospect. 
It's  bein'  done  every  day  —  it  and  the  other 
fella." 

"But,  Red— " 

"Hold  on,  kid.  I  ain't  goin'  to  bunk  nobody. 
This  here's  square.  I  need  financin'  —  a  burro 
and  a  grubstake  and  me  for  the  big  dry  spot. 
Ship  the  outfit  to  the  desert  town,  and  then  hit  it 
along  the  rails  to  where  we  hid  it.  If  the  papers 
we  hid  is  any  good,  me  to  locate  the  ledge.  Any 
how,  there 's  a  good  five  hundred  in  the  poke,  and 
that's  better  than  a  kick  in  the  pants." 

"You'll  get  pinched  sure,  Red." 

"Nix,  kiddo.  Not  out  there.  Money  talks. 
'Course  it  ain't  makin'  any  distressin'  sounds 
around  here  jest  now,  but,  say,  got  the  makin's?  " 

"I  ain't  smoked  since  I  been  here,  Red." 

"  Excuse  me,  Miss  Collie.  What  denomination 
did  you  say?" 

"Straight,  Red.  I'm  savin'  my  money." 

"What  do  they  pay  you  for  settin'  on  that 
cay  use?" 

"Fifteen  a  month,  and  board,  and  the  horse  to 
ride." 

"Don't  mention  the  hoss,  pal.  Jest  make 
motions  with  your  hands  when  you  mean  him. 
Talkin'  is  apt  to  wake  him  up." 

81 


Overland  Red 

"He  pitched  me  twice." 

"Just  havin'  bad  dreams,  that's  all,'*  said 
Overland,  grinning.  "Fifteen  a  month  and 
found  ain't  bad  for  a  bum,  is  it?" 

"Cut  that  out,  Red.  I  ain't  no  bum." 

"Ex-cuse  me.  There  I  gone  and  laminated 
your  feelin's  again.  Why  in  hell  don't  you  blush, 
or  drop  your  little  ole  lace  handkerchief,  or  fix 
your  back  hair,  so  I  can  remember  I  'm  talkin'  to 
a  lady?  It  ain't  manners,  this  here  imperson- 
atin'  you're  a  boy  like  that." 

"Quit  your  kiddin',  Red.  Mebby  you  think  it 
was  easy  to  cut  out  the  old  stun7,  and  everybody 
on  the  ranch  on  to  what  I  used  to  be.  I  was 
cryin'  the  first  night.  I  was  lonesome  for  you." 

Overland's  eyelids  flickered.  He  grinned. 
"Uhuh!  I  could  hear  you  clean  over  in  the  Simi 
Valley.  I  was  thinkin'  of  comin'  right  backy 
only-" 

"Oh,  if  you  think  I'm  lyin  to  you  — " 

Overland  thrust  up  a  soiled  palm.  "Nix;  you 
never  did  yet.  How  much  coin  can  you  rustle?" 

"I  got  that  eight-and-a-half  I  had  when  we 
was  pinched.  It's  down  to  the  bunk-house." 

"Well,  bring  it  up  here  to-morrow  mornin'. 
And,  say,  swipe  a  sogun  for  me.  I  near  froze  last 
night." 

Collie's  brows  drew  together.  "I'll  bring  the 
money,  sure !  but  I  can't  swipe  no  blanket,  even 

82 


The  Test 

for  you.  The  boss  thinks  I  'm  square,  and  so  does 
she.  I'll  bring  tobacco  and  papers.  Got  any 
grub?" 

"Well,  some.  I  ain't  exactly  livin'  on  sage 
brush  and  scenery  yet.  I  been  trainin'  some 
chickens  to  do  the  Texas  Tommy.  Every  one 
that  learns  to  do  it  in  one  lesson  gets  presented 
with  a  large  hot  fryin'-pan.  Surprisin'  how  them 
chickens  is  fond  of  dancin'.  I  reckon  I  learned 
six  of  'em  since  I  seen  you  last.  But  don't  forget 
the  eight  rollers  and  four  bits.  I  need  ten,  but 
eight-fifty  will  do.  I  '11  have  to  leave  out  the  silk 
pejammies  and  the  rosewater  this  trip.  But 
kickie  pants  is  good  enough  for  me  to  sleep  in. 
How's  that  sheriff  gent?" 

"Busted  his  collar-bone  and  killed  his  horse." 

"  I  'm  sad  for  the  hoss.  How  do  you  like  livin' 
decent?" 

"Fine,  Red!  I  wish  you  would  — " 

"Hold  on,  Collie,  not  me!  I'm  gettin'  too  old, 
too  plumb  old  and  disgusted  with  this  vale  of 
steers  to  change  and  tie  down  to  short  grass. 
Now  you're  near  enough  to  the  age  of  that  little 
Louise  girl  to  make  life  interestin'." 

"Who  said  anything  about  her?" 

"Whoa,  Chico!  Back  up.  You're  steppin'  on 
your  bridle.  Don't  go  'way  mad.  Why,  I  said 
somethin'  about  her,  that's  who.  You  got  any 
idea  of  hobblin'  my  talk?" 

83 


Overland  Red 

"No.  But—" 

"Oh,  you  can't  flim  your  ole  pal,  nohow. 
You're  just  commencin'  life  on  what  that  little 
Louise  lady  thinks  you  ought  to  be.  And  you 
will  be  it  some  day,  if  you  keep  straight.  So 
will  I." 

"You?"  Collie  was  unable  to  associate  a 
reconstructive  idea  with  Overland's  mode  of  life. 

"Say!  Just  as  if  I  never  knowed  a  good 
woman.  Say,  I  could  actooly  give  up  smokin'  for 
her,  if  I  had  to  hire  some  guy  to  do  it  for  me. 
That's  what  I  think  of  her.  When  I  get  me  plush 
rags  and  the  dizzy  lid,  I  '11  call  around  in  me  pri 
vate  caboose  and  take  you  both  for  a  little  ride." 

For  a  moment  the  boy  gazed  away  to  where 
the  silver  of  the  Southern  Pacific  rails  glinted  in 
the  valley.  Overland  Red's  presence  brought 
back  poignantly  the  long,  lazy  days  of  loafing  and 
the  wide,  starry  nights  of  wayside  fire,  tobacco, 
and  talk.  There  was  a  charm  in  the  free  life  of 
the  road  —  that  long  gray  road  that  never  ended 
—  never  ended  in  the  quiet  shade  of  a  mountain 
ranch  or  in  the  rose-bordered  pathway  to  a  val 
ley  cottage.  The  long  gray  road  held  out  no  pro 
mise  of  rest  for  worn  and  aged  folk.  After  all,  its 
only  freedom  was  the  freedom  of  eternal  wan 
dering  .  .  .  until  one  could  adventure  no  longer 
.  .  .  and  then?  Better  to  tread  the  harder  path 
of  duty. 

84 


The  Test 

The  boy's  black  eyes  were  lifted  pleadingly. 
"Red,"  he  said  hesitatingly.  "Red,  I  got  to  tell 
you  to  camp  the  other  side  of  that  line  fence  till 
I  come  to-morrow." 

Overland  understood  instantly  that  the  lad 
was  but  following  general  instructions.  He  loved 
the  boy,  and  so,  perversely,  worked  upon  his 
feelings.  "Oh,  the  other  side?  Ex-cuse  me,  chief , 
for  intrudin'  on  this  here  resavation.  Sorry  I'm 
crowdin'  you  so." 

"Now,  Red,  wait— " 

"Wait?  What,  for  you  to  insult  your  ole  pal 
again  by  tellin'  him  he  might  drink  all  the 
water  in  this  here  spring,  mebby,  or  inflooence 
the  morals  of  the  cattle,  or  steal  the  wire  off  the 
fence?  Huh!  I  thought  I  was  your  pal?" 

"Oh,  Red,  quit  kiddin'.  Don't  you  see  I  got 
orders?  I  got  orders." 

''You're  gettin'  civilized  fast,  all  right.  The 
first  thing  civilization  does  is  to  projooce  hobos 
and  bums.  Then  she  turns  up  her  nose  because 
hobos  and  bums  ain't  civilized.  Did  you  ever  see 
a  ma  cat  get  mad  because  one  of  her  kittens  was 
born  with  sore  eyes?  I  guess  not.  Cats  has  got 
sense.  Now,  what  if  I  don't  indignify  myself  to 
the  extent  of  crawlin'  under  that  line  fence?" 

"Course  I'll  bring  you  the  coin  in  the  morn- 
in'.  But  if  you  don't  go  now,  why,  I  got  to  quit 
this  job.  I  got  to  play  square  to  him/' 

85 


Overland  Red 

"So  it's  orders  or  me,  eh?" 

"Yes,  Red,  and  I  want  to  use  you  right,  and  be 
square,  too." 

Overland  Red's  beard  hid  the  quiver  of  his  lips 
as  he  asked  huskily:  "And  you  would  be  comin' 
back  on  the  road  with  your  ole  pal  again?  You 
would  give  up  the  job  and  the  chance  of  a  smile 
from  that  little  Rose-Lady  Girl  and  flew  the  coop 
with  me  again  if  I  said  the  word?" 

"Sure  I  would.  You  come  first  and  the  job 
comes  second;  but  —  but  I  want  to  keep  the 
job." 

Overland's  keen  blue  eyes  filled  with  instant 
emotion.  "Oh,  you  go  chase  a  snake  up  your 
sleeve.  Do  you  think  I'd  bust  your  chances  of 
makin'  good  here?  Do  you  reckon  I'd  let  a  line 
fence  stand  between  me  and  you,  speakin' 
poetical?  Say,  I'll  go  camp  in  that  sheriff  gent's 
front  yard  if  it  '11  do  any  good  to  you,  or  before 
I'll  see  you  in  bad  with  the  little  Rose  Girl!" 

"Please,  Red;  I  mean  it." 

"So  do  I.  I'll  fade  quicker  than  spit  on  a  hot 
stove.  Don't  forget  to-morrow  mornin'.  Some 
day  I  '11  put  you  hep  to  how  to  ride.  You  better 
get  to  your  fence  job." 

Brand  Williams  watched  the  man  and  the  boy 
as  they  walked  along  the  line-fence  trail  together. 
Collie  leading  the  pony,  the  man  talking  and 
gesticulating  earnestly.  'Finally  they  shook 

86 


The  Test 

hands.  The  tramp  crawled  under  the  fence.  The 
boy  mounted  Baldy  and  rode  away. 

Williams,  catching  up  his  own  horse,  spurred 
quickly  across  the  ridge  above  the  spring  that 
the  boy  might  not  see  him. 


CHAPTER  IX 

A   CELESTIAL  ENTERPRISE 

BROAD  avenues  of  feathery  pepper  trees, 
long  driveways  between  shadowy  rows  of 
the  soldierly  eucalyptus,  wide  lawns  and  gigantic 
palms  of  the  southern  isles,  weaving  pampas 
grass,  gay  as  the  plumes  of  romance,  jasmine, 
orange-bloom,  and  roses  everywhere.  Over  all 
is  the  eternal  sunshine  and  noon  breeze  of  the  sea, 
graciously  cooling.  Roundabout  is  a  girdle  of  far 
hills. 

Some  old  Spanish  padre  named  it  "Nuestra 
Senora  Reina  de  Los  Angeles,"  making  melody 
that  still  lures  with  its  ancient  charm.  A  city  for 
angels,  verily.  A  city  of  angels?  Verily;  some 
fallen,  indeed,  for  there  is  much  nefarious  traf 
ficking  in  real  estate,  but  all  in  all  the  majority 
of  souls  in  Los  Angeles  are  celestial  bound,  tread 
ing  upon  sunbeams  in  their  pilgrimage. 

The  plaza,  round  which  the  new  town  roars 
from  dawn  to  dusk,  is  still  haunted  by  a  crum 
bling  old  adobe,  while  near  it  droop  dusty  pepper 
trees  that  seem  to  whisper  to  each  other  end 
lessly —  "Manana!  Manana!"  Whisper  as  did 
those  swarthy  vaqueros  and  the  young,  lithe, 

88 


A  Celestial  Enterprise 

low-voiced  senoritas  who  strolled  across  the 
plaza  in  the  dusk  of  by-gone  days.  "Mafiana! 
Manana !  —  To-morrow !  To-morrow ! " 

And  the  to-morrows  have  come  and  gone  as  did 
those  Spanish  lovers,  riding  up  through  the  sun 
shine  on  their  silver-bitted  pinto  ponies  and  rid 
ing  out  at  dusk  with  tinkling  spur-chains  into 
that  long  to-morrow  that  has  shrouded  the  an 
cient  plaza  in  listless  dreams.  Mexicans  in  black 
sombreros  and  blue  overalls  still  prowl  from 
cantina  to  cantina,  but  the  gay  vaquero  and  his 
senorita  are  no  more. 

Overland  Red,  a  harsh  note  in  the  somnolence 
of  the  place,  stepped  buoyantly  across  the 
square.  And  here,  if  ever,  Overland  was  at  home. 

A  swarthy,  fat  Mexican  shaved  him  while  a 
lean  old  rurale  of  Overland's  earlier  acquaintance 
obligingly  accepted  some  pesos  with  which  to 
drink  the  senor's  health,  and  other  pesos  with 
which  to  purchase  certain  clothing  for  the  senor. 

The  retired  rurale  drove  a  relentless  bargain 
with  a  countryman,  returning  with  certain  pic 
turesque  garments  that  Overland  donned  in  the 
back  room  of  the  little  circus-blue  barber  shop. 

The  tramp  had  worthily  determined  to  hold 
wise  and  remunerative  converse  with  the  first 
Easterner  that  "looked  good  to  him."  He  would 
make  half-truths  do  double  duty.  He  needed 
money  to  purchase  a  burro,  packs,  canteen,  pick, 

89 


Overland  Red 

shovel,  dynamite,  and  provisions.  He  intended 
to  repay  the  investor  by  money-order  from  some 
desert  town  as  soon  as  he  found  the  hidden  gold. 
This  unusual  and  worthy  intention  lent  Overland 
added  assurance,  and  he  needed  it.  Fortune, 
goddess  evanishing  and  coy,  was  with  him  for 
once.  If  he  could  but  dodge  the  plain-clothes 
men  long  enough  to  outfit  and  get  away.  .  .  . 

The  "Mojave  Bar,"  on  North  Main  Street  of 
the  City  of  Angels  was  all  but  empty.  Upon  it  the 
lassitude  of  early  afternoon  lay  heavily.  The 
spider-legged  music-racks  of  the  Mexican  string 
orchestra,  the  empty  platform  chairs,  the  de 
serted  side-tables  along  the  pictured  wall,  the 
huge  cactus  scrawled  over  with  pin-etched 
initials,  —  all  the  impedimenta  of  the  saloon 
seemed  to  slumber. 

The  white-coated  proprietor,  with  elbows  on 
the  bar,  gazed  listlessly  at  a  Remington  night- 
scene  —  a  desert  nocturne  with  a  shadowy  adobe 
against  the  blue-black  night,  a  glimmer  of  lamp 
light  through  a  doorway,  and  in  the  golden  path 
way  a  pony  and  rider  and  the  red  flash  of  pistol 
shots. 

Opposite  the  bartender,  at  a  table  against  the 
wall,  sat  a  young  man,  clad  in  cool  gray.  He 
smoked  a  cigarette,  and  occasionally  sipped  from 
a  tall  glass.  He  was  slender,  clean-cut,  high- 
colored,  an  undeniable  patrician.  In  his  mild  gray 

90 


A  Celestial  Enterprise 

eyes,  deep  down,  gleamed  a  latent  humor,  an 
interior  twinkling  not  apparent  to  the  multi 
tude. 

Sweeney  Orcutt,  the  saloon-keeper,  noticed 
this  reserve  characteristic  now  for  the  first  time, 
as  the  young  man  turned  toward  him.  Sweeney 
was  a  retired  plain-clothes  man  with  a  record, 
and  a  bank  account.  It  was  said  that  he  knew 
every  crook  from  Los  Angeles  to  New  York.  Be 
it  added,  to  his  credit,  that  he  kept  his  own 
counsel  —  attending  to  his  own  business  on 
both  sides  of  the  bar. 

"Do  they  ever  do  those  things  now?"  queried 
the  young  man,  nodding  toward  the  picture. 

Sweeney  Orcutt  smiled  a  thin-lipped  smile. 
"Not  much.  Sometimes  in  Texas  or  Mexico.  I 
seen  the  day  when  they  did." 

The  young  man  lazily  crossed  his  legs.  "Nice 
and  cool  here,"  he  remarked  presently. 

"Been  in  town  long?"  asked  Sweeney. 

"No,  only  a  few  days." 

"I  was  goin'  to  say  there's  a  good  show  over 
on  Spring  Street  —  movin'-pictures  of  the  best 
ridin'  and  buckin'  and  ropin'  I  seen  yet." 

"Yes?  Is  there  any  one  in  town  who  is  not 
working  for  the  movies?" 

Again  Sweeney  Orcutt  smiled  his  thin-lipped 
smile.  "Yes,  I  guess  there  is.  I  might  scare 
up  one  or  two  I  used  to  know  who  is  workin* 

91 


Overland  Red 

the  transients,  which  ain't  exactly  workin*  for 
the  movies." 

"I  should  like  to  meet  some  character  who  is 
really  doing  something  in  earnest;  that  is,  some 
cowboy,  miner,  prospector,  teamster,  —  one  of 
those  twenty-mule-team  kind,  you  know,  —  or 
any  such  chap.  Why,  even  the  real  estate  men 
that  have  been  up  to  my  hotel  seem  to  be  acting 
a  part.  One  expects  every  minute  to  see  one  of 
them  pull  a  gun  and  hold  up  a  fellow.  No  doubt 
they  mean  business." 

"Bank  on  that,"  said  Orcutt  dryly. 

"You  see,"  continued  the  young  man,  "I  have 
too  much  time  on  my  hands  just  now.  The  doc 
tors  tell  me  to  rest,  and  I  've  been  doing  nothing 
else  all  my  life.  It's  pretty  monotonous.  I've 
tried  to  get  interested  in  some  of  the  chaps  on 
North  Main  Street,  and  around  the  plaza.  I've 
offered  to  buy  them  drinks  and  all  that,  but  they 
seem  to  shy  off.  I  suppose  they  think  I'm  a 
detective  or  something  of  that  kind." 

"More  like,  a  newspaper  man  after  a  story. 
Hello,  there!  Now,  what's  doin'?" 

Outside  near  the  curb  a  crowd  had  collected. 
A  traffic  officer  was  talking  to  the  driver  of  an 
automobile.  As  Sweeney  Orcutt  strolled  toward 
the  doorway,  Overland  Red,  clean-shaven, 
clothed  in  new  corduroys  and  high  lace  boots, 
and  a  sombrero  aslant  on  his  stiff  red  hair,  dove 

92 


A  Celestial  Enterprise 

into  the  saloon  and  called  for  a  "bucket  of 
suds." 

"Close  —  shave  —  Red  —  "  whispered 
Orcutt. 

"Had  me  orcutt,  likewise,"  replied  the 
tramp.  "Say,  Sweeney,  stall  off  the  Dick  out 
there.  I  think  he  piped  me  as  I  blew  in,  but  I 
ain't  sure.  He'll  be  pokin'  in  here  in  a  minute. 
If  he  sees  me  talkin',  —  to  the  guy  there,  for  in 
stance,  —  and  you  give  him  a  steer,  he  won't 
look  too  close.  Sabe?"  And  Overland  drank, 
observing  the  Easterner  at  the  table  over  the  top 
of  his  glass. 

"They  got  that  guy  Overland  Red  mugged  in 
every  station  from  here  to  Chicago,"  whispered 
Orcutt.  "Paper  says  he  put  it  over  a  desert  rat 
up  near  Barstow.  Did  you  hear  about  it?" 

"Some,"  replied  Overland  sententiously. 

"And  did  you  hear  about  his  last  get-away  on 
one  of  the  Moonstone  Rancho  ponies?  Some 
class  to  that!" 

"I  read  somethin'  about  it,"  replied  Overland. 

"Well,  Red,  if  you  won't  tumble,  all  I  got  to 
say  is,  beat  it.  You're  worth  a  thousand  bucks 
to  any  fly-cop  that  nips  you  in  this  town.  I'm 
handin'  you  a  little  dope  that  you  can  slide  out 
on  and  not  get  stuck." 

"Thanks,  Sweeney.  Well,  I'll  ring  you  up 
from  Kalamazoo." 

98 


Overland  Red 

"Kalamazoo?   In  them  clothes?" 

"Sure.  There's  a  law  against  travelin'  naked 
in  some  States.  Where  you  been  grazin'  lately?  " 

"In  the  bull-pasture;  and  say,  Red,  it's  gettin' 
warm  there,  for  some." 

"Well,  I  guess  I'll  beat  it,"  said  Overland. 

"Take  a  slant  at  the  door  first." 

Overland  turned  leisurely.  In  the  doorway 
stood  the  traffic  officer.  He  glanced  from  Orcutt 
to  the  two  men  near  the  table.  "  Hello,  Sweeney ! " 
he  called,  glancing  a  second  time  at  Overland. 

"Hello!"  answered  Sweeney,  strolling  to  the 
end  of  the  bar.  "Somebody  speedin'?" 

"Yes.   Say,  who's  the  guy,  the  big  one?" 

"Him?  Oh,  that's  Billy  Sample,  the  fella  that 
does  the  desert  stuff  for  the  General  Film  Com 
pany.  The  kid  is  his  pardner  who  acts  the  ten 
derfoot.  They  're  waitin'  for  the  machine  now 
to  take  'em  out  to  Glendale.  Got  some  stunt  to 
pull  off  this  afternoon,  so  Billy  was  tellin'  me. 
They  're  about  half -stewed  now.  They  make  me 
sick." 

"Thought  I  saw  the  big  guy  out  on  the  street  a 
minute  ago,"  said  the  officer,  hesitating.  "  There 's 
a  card  out  for  a  fella  that  looks  like  him.  I 
guess  — " 

"He  thought  it  was  his  machine  comin',"  said 
Orcutt.  "He  run  out  to  see.  It 's  a  wonder  how 
them  movie  actors  can  make  up  to  look  like  most 


A  Celestial  Enterprise 

anybody.  Why,  I  been  in  your  line  of  business, 
as  you  know,  and  I  been  fooled  lots  of  times. 
Makes  a  fella  feel  like  he  don't  know  where  he's 
at  with  the  town  full  of  them  movin'-picture 
actors." 

"Well,  so  long,  Sweeney."  And  the  traffic  of 
ficer,  a  little  afraid  of  being  laughed  at  by  the 
famous  ex-officer,  Sweeney  Orcutt,  departed,  just 
a  thousand  dollars  poorer  than  he  might  have 
been  had  he  had  the  courage  of  his  convictions. 

Overland  and  Orcutt  exchanged  glances.  Or- 
cutt's  glance  rested  meaningly,  for  an  instant, 
on  the  Easterner  at  the  table.  Overland  grinned. 
Orcutt  spoke  to  the  young  Easterner,  who  imme 
diately  rose  to  his  feet  and  bowed. 

"You  was  lookin'  for  somebody  that's  the 
real  thing,  you  said.  This  here's  my  friend  Jack 
Summers.  He  used  to  be  sheriff  of  Abilene  once. 
He  ain't  workin'  for  a  movin'-picture  outfit  and 
he  won't  borrow  your  watch.  Mebby  he  has  a 
little  business  deal  to  put  up  to  you  and  mebby 
not.  Take  my  word  for  it,  he's  straight." 

"I'm  William  Winthrop,  back  East.  *  Billy* 
will  do  here.  I'm  a  tenderfoot,  but  I'm  not 
exactly  a  fool.  I  observed  the  delicacy  with 
which  you  engineered  the  recent  exodus  of  the 
policeman.  I'm  interested." 

"Sounds  like  plush  to  me,"  said  Overland.  "I 
got  a  little  time  —  not  much.  You're  correct 

95 


Overland  Red 

about  the  cop.  I  got  a  pretty  good  thing  out  in 
the  Mojave  —  gold  — " 

Winthrop  laughed.  "You  aren't  losing  any 
time,  are  you?" 

"You  wouldn't  neither  if  you  was  in  my 
boots,"  said  Overland,  grinning  cheerfully. 

"Oh,  Red's  all  right,"  said  Orcutt.  "What '11 
you  gents  have?" 

"Seein'  I'm  all  right,  Sweeney,  I'll  take  five 
dollars  in  small  change.  I  need  the  coin  for  en- 
tertainin'  purposes.  I'll  pay  you  in  the  morn- 


in'. 


"  You  got  me  that  time,"  said  Orcutt.  "  Here 's 
the  coin." 

"Shall  we  sit  down  here?"  asked  Winthrop, 
indicating  one  of  the  tables. 

"Sure!  Now  this  ain't  no  frame-up.  No,  I'll 
set  where  I  can  watch  Sweeney.  He's  like  to 
steal  his  own  cash-register  if  you  don't  watch 
him."  And  Winthrop  noticed  that  his  compan 
ion  faced  the  door.  He  also  noticed,  as  the  man's 
coat  brushed  against  a  chair  as  he  sat  down,  that 
that  same  coat  covered  a  shiny  black  shoulder 
holster  in  which  gleamed  the  worn  butt  of  an 
automatic  pistol. 

"My  real  name  is  Jack  Summers,"  began 
Overland  Red.  "Some  folks  took  to  callin'  me 
'Overland  Red,'  seein'  as  I  been  some  towerist  in 
my  time." 

96 


A  Celestial  Enterprise 

"Great!"  murmured  the  Easterner.  "'Over 
land  Red!'  That  name  has  me  hypnotized." 

"You  was  sayin'?"  queried  Overland. 

"Beg  your  pardon.  Nothing  worth  while.  I 
have  n't  been  so  happy  for  a  year.  Let  me  ex 
plain.  I  have  a  little  money,  pretty  well  in 
vested.  I  also  have  lungs,  I  believe.  The  doc 
tors  don't  quite  agree  about  that,  however.  The 
last  one  gave  me  six  months  to  live.  That  was  a 
year  ago.  I  owe  him  an  apology  and  six  months. 
I'm  not  afraid,  exactly,  and  I'm  certainly  not 
glad.  But  I  want  to  forget  it.  That's  all.  Go 
ahead  about  that  desert  and  the  gold.  I'm 
listening." 


CHAPTER  X 

"PERFECTLY  HARMLESS  LITTLE  OLE 
TENDERFOOT " 

WILLIAM  STANLEY  WINTHROP  woke 
next  morning  with  a  vague  impression  of 
having  lost  something.  He  gazed  indolently  at 
the  sunlight  filtering  through  the  curtains  of  his 
sleeping-room.  Beyond  the  archway  to  the  ad 
joining  room  of  his  suite,  a  ray  of  sunshine  lay 
like  living  gold  upon  the  soft,  rich-hued  fabric  of 
the  carpet. 

"Gold!"  he  murmured.  "Mojave  Desert! 
Overland  Red !  Lost  gold !  No,  it  is  n't  the  two 
hundred  dollars  I  invested  in  the  rascal's  story, 
for  it  was  worth  the  money.  I  never  spent  four 
happier  hours  in  my  life,  at  fifty  dollars  an  hour. 
The  best  of  it  is  he  actually  made  me  believe  him. 
I  think  he  believed  himself." 

Winthrop  sat  up  in  bed,  yawning.  "I  think 
black  coffee  will  be  about  all,  this  morning,"  he 
murmured,  as  he  dressed  leisurely. 

He  was  tying  a  fastidiously  correct  bow  on  his 
tan  oxford  when  he  happened  to  glance  out  of  the 
window.  It  was  early,  altogether  too  early,  he 
reflected,  to  appear  in  the  breakfast-room  of  the 

98 


Little  Ole  Tenderfoot 

hotel.  Winthrop's  indefinite  soliloquy  melted 
into  the  rapt  silence  of  imagination.  Below  on 
the  smooth  black  pavement  pattered  two  laden 
burros.  On  their  packs  hung  dusty,  weather 
worn  canteens,  a  pick  and  shovel,  and  a  rifle  in 
its  soiled  and  frayed  scabbard.  The  sturdy, 
shaggy  burros  followed  a  little,  lean  old  man, 
whose  flop-brimmed  hat,  faded  shirt,  and  bat 
tered  boots  i  >ld  a  tale  of  the  outlands,  whispered 
of  sun-swept  immensities,  of  sage  and  cacti,  sand 
and  silence.  Winthrop  drew  a  long  breath.  Such 
an  adventurer  was  the  Overland  Red  he  had 
talked  with  the  evening  previous.  The  tramp 
had  mentioned  a  town  far  out  on  the  desert. 
Winthrop  sauntered  down  to  the  deserted  office 
and  secured  a  timetable. 

When  the  east-bound  express  left  Los  Angeles 
the  following  morning,  Winthrop  was  aboard, 
uncomfortably  installed  in  the  private  drawing- 
room  of  a  sleeper.  He  had  cheerfully  paid  the 
double  fare  that  he  might  have  the  entire  space 
to  himself,  and  he  needed  it.  Around  him,  on  the 
floor,  in  the  seats,  in  the  racks,  and  on  the  hooks 
were  innumerable  packages,  bags,  and  bundles. 

"  Very  eccentric.  He  must  be  rich,"  whispered 
the  wife  of  a  dry-goods  merchant  from  Keokuk, 
as  her  husband  pushed  her  ahead  of  him  past  the 
door  of  the  drawing-room. 

"Just  plain  hog!"  said  the  dry-goods  mer- 
99 


Overland  Red 

chant.  "A  man  that'll  pay  double  fare  to  have 
the  whole  earth  to  himself  when  other  folks  has 
to  be  packed  into  a  berth  and  suffocate!  The 
conductor  said  he  paid  double  to  Chicago  to  get 
that  compartment,  and  he 's  only  goin'  out  in  the 
desert  a  little  ways.  I'd  'a'  took  it  myself." 

"Well,  we  could  hardly  afford  it,  anyway,'9 
said  the  woman  pleasantly.  "We've  had  such 
a  good  time  I  don't  mind  sleeping  in  a  berth, 
Hiram." 

They  crowded  on  and  finally  found  their 
seats. 

Winthrop  smiled  to  himself.    He  liked  the 


woman's  voice. 


He  lighted  a  cigarette  and  gazed  wistfully, 
even  despairingly,  at  the  "outfit"  which  sur 
rounded  him.  He  sighed.  "  Awful  accumulation 
of  plunder.  Wonder  what  I'll  do  with  it?" 

As  the  train  climbed  the  grade  beyond  San 
Bernardino,  he  grew  restless.  Flinging  down  his 
cigarette,  he  began  unwrapping  his  belongings. 
Out  came  blankets,  extra  clothing,  a  rifle,  can 
teens  of  several  patterns,  two  pack-saddles,  a  coil 
of  rope,  a  pair  of  high  lace  boots,  —  hobnailed, 
heavy,  and  unserviceable,  —  a  pocket  compass,  a 
hunting-knife,  a  patent  filter,  two  halters,  two 
galvanized  pails,  a  small,  compact,  silk  tent,  an 
axe,  a  fishing-rod,  a  rubber  cup,  a  box  of  cigars, 
a  bottle  of  brandy,  several  neckerchiefs,  a  cart? 

100 


Little  Ole  Tenderfoot 

ridge-belt,  a  Colts  revolver  of  large  and  aggres 
sive  caliber,  cartridges,  a  prospector's  pick,  a 
shovel,  a  medicine-case,  a  new  safety  razor,  a 
looking-glass,  a  clinic  thermometer,  and  a  copy 
of  "Robinson  Crusoe." 

He  pondered  over  the  agglomeration  of  arti 
cles  pensively.  "He  was  a  good  salesman/'  he 
said,  smiling.  "  I  '11  be  either  a  juggler  or  a  strong 
man  before  I'm  through  with  these  -things/  1 
think  I  '11  begin  now  and  re-pack.  I  '11  make  one 
glorious  bundle  of  it.  That's  the  ticket!" 

Winthrop  went  to  work,  whistling  cheerfully. 
He  spread  the  blanket  and  rearranged  his  pos 
sessions,  finally  rolling  them  up  into  an  uncer 
tain  bundle  which  he  roped  with  the  weird  skill 
of  the  amateur  packer.  He  tried  to  lift  the  bun 
dle  to  the  opposite  seat.  He  decided  to  leave  it 
on  the  floor. 

Over  the  grade  and  on  the  level  of  the  desert 
the  train  gathered  speed.  The  shimmering 
spaces  revolved  slowly,  to  meet  the  rushing  track 
ahead.  Hour  after  hour  sat  Winthrop,  reading 
and  occasionally  glancing  out  across  the  desert. 
His  was  the  wildest  of  wild-goose  chases.  A 
stranger  had  told  him  of  a  mysterious  ledge  of 
gold  somewhere  out  on  the  desert,  and  the 
stranger  had  named  a  desert  town  —  the  town 
toward  which  Winthrop  was  journeying.  Would 
the  eccentric  Overland  Red  be  there?  Winthrop 

101 


Overland  Red 

Loped  so.  He  wanted  to  believe  that  this  Ulysses 
of  the  outlands  had  spoken  truth.  He  imagined 
vividly  Overland  Red's  surprise  when  one  Wil 
liam  Stanley  Winthrop,  late  of  New  York, 
should  appear,  equipped  to  the  chin  and  eager  to 
participate  in  the  hunt  for  the  lost  gold.  Then 
again,-  the-" prospector  might  not  care  to  be  bur- 
-dened  with  the  companionship  of  a  tenderfoot. 
S  till,  th£rir freer tainty  of  his  welcome  lent  zest 
to  Winthrop's  enterprise.  He  closed  the  door  of 
his  drawing-room  and  wound  through  a  ma 
hogany  maze  toward  the  dining-car. 

Next  morning,  as  the  train  slowed  down  for  the 
desert  town,  Winthrop  was  in  the  vestibule, 
peering  out  anxiously.  It  did  not  occur  to  him 
that  Overland  Red  knew  nothing  of  his  coming, 
or  that  the  other  would  be  waiting  on  the  station 
platform  if  he  did.  The  tramp  had  not  the 
faintest  desire  to  make  himself  conspicuous. 
Some  of  Winthrop's  enthusiasm  had  evaporated 
during  the  hot  night  in  the  sleeper. 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  called  the  lady  from 
Keokuk,  Iowa. 

"Don't  mention  it,"  said  Winthrop,  disem 
barking  behind  the  porter  with  his  "plunder." 
Then,  as  the  Pullman  slid  away,  Winthrop  de 
liberately  and  gracefully  threw  a  kiss  to  the  dry- 
goods  merchant's  wife.  "Nice  little  woman,"  he 

102 


Little  Ole  Tenderfoot 

reflected.  "Too  nice  to  associate  with  that 
grampus.  Well,  I  hope  they'll  enjoy  the  rest  of 
the  trip  in  the  drawing-room.  I'm  glad  I  was 
able  to  arrange  it." 

He  watched  the  train  crawl  down  the  track „ 
He  wondered  how  long  he  would  be  able  to  dis 
tinguish  the  pattern  of  the  brasswork  on  the 
observation  car-rail. 

Out  of  the  empty  distance  came  the  click, 
clink,  clank  of  hammers  and  shovels  as  the  sec 
tion-men,  a  mile  down  the  track,  stepped  into 
work  behind  the  train. 

"Prospectin'P"  queried  a  lank  individual, 
slouching  up  to  Winthrop. 

"A  little,"  said  Winthrop.  "It's  pretty  dry 
work." 

"Uhuh.   It's  goin'  to  be  hot  about  noon." 

"I  suppose  so.  Will  you  kindly  give  me  a  hand 
with  this  monstrosity,"  said  Winthrop,  indicat 
ing  the  pack.  "The  agent  seems  to  be  busy." 

"Sure!   She  ain't  roped  very  tight." 

Which  proved  to  be  true.  The  bundle,  with  a 
kind  of  animate  indifference,  slowly  sagged, 
opened,  and  things  began  to  trickle  from  it  in  its 
journey  across  the  platform.  Among  the  things 
was  the  bottle  of  brandy.  The  lank  individual 
picked  this  up  tenderly  and  set  it  to  one  side. 
Winthrop  noticed  his  solicitude,  and  smiled. 

"We  can  rope  'em  up  again,"  said  the  lank 
103 


Overland  Red 

one,  suddenly  becoming  enthusiastic.  "My 
name  's  Jim  Hicks.  I'm  constable  here." 

"I  see.  Well,  I'm  William  Winthrop,  from 
Los  Angeles.  I 'm  a  naturalist.  Will  you  accept  a 
cigar?" 

"Thanks.  You  want  to  pack  this  here  bottle, 
too?" 

"Not  right  away.  Whew!  It  is  getting  hot." 

"Goin'  up  to  the  hotel?"  queried  the  con 
stable. 

Winthrop  glanced  along  the  street.  The  hotel 
did  not  look  inviting.  "I  don't  know.  I 'd  like  to 
get  in  the  shade  somewhere." 

"There's  old  Fernando's  'dobe  down  the 
track  under  them  pepper  trees.  He's  a  friend  of 
mine.  He  ain't  to  home  to-day.  Mebby  you'd 
like  to  set  down  there  and  wait  for  your  friend." 

"My  friend?" 

:'Why,  ain't  you  waitin'  for  anybody?  You 
ain't  goin'  to  tackle  that  bug-huntin'  trip  alone, 
be  you?  It 's  dangerous  out  there  for  a  tenderfoot. 
Now  I  have  took  folks  out,  and  brought  'em  back 
all  right,  —  gone  as  far  as  them  hills  over  there, 
and  that's  a  good  jag  from  here,  —  and  I  only 
charge  four  dollars  a  day  and  grub." 

"I  thought  you  said  you  were  constable?" 

"So  I  be.  Takin'  parties  across  the  desert  is  on 
the  side.  How  far  you  figurin'  on  goin'?" 

"I  have  n't  made  up  my  mind  yet.  Say  we  go 
104 


Little  Ole  Tenderfoot 

down  as  far  as  the  adobe  you  spoke  about,  as  a 
beginning.   Perhaps  we  can  arrange  terms." 
"I'm  on,  pard,"  said  the  constable. 

Under  the  pepper  trees  shading  Fernando's 
adobe  sat  Winthrop  and  the  constable.  The 
brandy-bottle  was  half  empty  and  a  box  of  cigars 
was  open  beside  it  on  the  bench.  The  afternoon 
shadows  were  lengthening.  The  constable  had 
been  discursive,  voluminous,  in  his  entertaining. 
Time  was  as  nothing.  He  borrowed  generously  of 
to-morrow  and  even  the  next  day.  He  became 
suddenly  quite  fond  of  this  quiet,  gentlemanly 
chap  opposite  him,  who  said  little,  but  seemed 
to  be  a  prince  of  good  fellows. 

"'S  this  way,"  said  the  constable,  leaning  for 
ward  and  waving  his  cigar.  "You're  fren'  of 
mine  —  sure  thing.  'S  af 'ernoon  now,  but  I  was 
plumb  fooled  this  mornin'.  Y'  know  i's  af  ernoon 
now.  Thought  you  was  the  guy  I  'm  lookin'  for. 
H'overlan'  Red  —  bum  —  tram'.  Wire  from 
Loshangeles  to  upperan'  him  if  he  shows  up 
here.  See?" 

'You're  not  quite  clear  to  me,"  replied 
Winthrop.  "But  never  mind  about  apprehend 
ing  any  one.  Let's  talk  about  this  glorious  pros 
pect  of  sand,  silence,  and  solitude.  I  feel  like  a 
fallen  angel.  Never  mind  about  arresting  any 
body.  Life  is  too  short.  Let's  talk  of  roses." 

105 


Overland  Red 

"Roshes!  Huh!"  sniggered  the  constable. 
"You 're  kin'  of  sof,  ain't  you?  Roshes  nothin'! 
I'm  goin'  talk  'bout  business.  It's  business,  my 
business  to  talk  'bout  it,  see?  'T  ain't  your  busi 
ness.  You  c'n  lissen,  an'  when  I  get  through, 
then  you  c'n  talk  roshes." 

"But  what  is  your  business?"  asked  Win- 
throp,  with  an  indifference  that  he  did  not  feel. 

"  S-s-s-h-h !  I  'm  cons'able.  Tha's  on  the  quiet. 
Thousand  dollars  rewar'  f'r  th'  appr'enshun  of 
'Verlan'  Red.  Thought  you  was  him  —  hie  — 
heelhee!" 

"  Please  don't  laugh  like  that.  It  hurts  my  feel 
ings,"  said  Winthrop.  "It  is  bad  enough  to  be 
taken  for  a  —  er  —  tramp." 

"Nobody's  feelin's  —  pologishe.  'Course  you 
ain'  him!  You're  jus'  a  liT  ole  ten'erfoot — • 
perfec'ly  harmless  liT  ole  ten'erfoot." 

"Thanks.    May  I  ask  you  to  have  another?" 

"Nope.   'Nough's 'nough.   'S  time  f'r  dinner." 

"Nearly.  Well,  if  you  flatly  refuse  to  drink  my 
health,  I'll  have  to  drink  it  alone,  and  that's 
rather  egotistical,  is  n't  it?" 

"Never.  B'  Gosh!  You're  sport.  Funny  liT 
ole  ten'erfoot  - — perf'ly  harmless.  Sure,  I'll 
drink  all  th5  health  you  got,  'n  then  go  home  — 
dinner." 

"One  will  be  sufficient,  I  think,"  said  Win 
throp. 

106 


Little  Ole  Tenderfoot 

"Sufficed  wha'?"  And  the  constable  leered 
cunningly. 

"To  drown  all  pangs.  Well,  here's  pleasant 
dreams." 

Far  down  the  line  came  the  faint  thrill  of 
wheels  and  the  distant,  clear-cut  blast  of  a  loco 
motive.  The  local  freight  from  Los  Angeles  was 
whistling  for  the  "block." 

Winthrop  glanced  at  his  watch,  then  at  the 
constable.  "What  train  is  that?"  asked  the 
Easterner. 

The  constable's  eyelids  drooped,  then  opened 
languidly.  "Railro'  train,  'f  course."  And  he 
slid  forward  to  his  elbow  and  thence  to  the 
bench.  Presently  he  snored. 

Winthrop  strolled  toward  the  approaching 
train.  "Pretty  stiff  session,"  he  commented. 
"Now  if  happy  chance  should  bring  Overland 
Red  on  this  freight,  with  his  burro  and  outfitj 
I'll  have  one  reason  to  offer  for  wanting  to  go 
with  him.  I've  probably  saved  him  some  an 
noyance,  indirectly,  but  rather  effectively,  I 
think." 

The  great  oil-burning  locomotive  roared  in, 
casting  heat-waves  that  smelled  of  steam,  iron, 
and  mechanical  energy.  The  hot  air  sickened 
Winthrop. 

A  car  was  cut  out  and  shunted  to  a  siding. 
Then  the  engine,  pausing  to  drink  a  gargantuan 

107 


Overland  Red 

draught  at  the  tank,  simmered  away  in  the  dusk, 
elanking  across  the  switch-points.  A  figure  leaped 
from  the  freight-car  to  the  ground.  Then  out 
came  a  burro  and  several  bundles.  The  figure 
strode  to  the  station  and  filled  two  canteens. 
Winthrop  walked  toward  the  burro.  When  he  of 
the  burro  and  canteens  returned,  he  found  Win 
throp  stroking  the  little  animal's  nose. 

"  What  the— !  How  the— !  Who  lost  you  out 
here?"  asked  Overland. 

Winthrop  spoke  rapidly  and  to  the  point. 
"  Express  this  morning.  Lonesome  again. 
Thought  I'd  make  a  change.  My  outfit  is  over 
at  the  station.  Don't  say  'No'  before  you  hear 
me.  You  're  going  to  need  me  —  tenderf  eet  and 
all." 

"But  you  can't— " 

"Wait.  The  local  constable  has  a  wire  from  the 
Los  Angeles  police  to  look  out  for  you.  Perhaps 
you  got  this  far  because  you're  traveling  in  a 
freight-car.  No  doubt  all  the  passenger  trains 
have  been  watched  all  along  the  line.  The  con 
stable  has  been  my  —  er  —  my  guest  since 
morning.  He  is  asleep  now.  I  had  to  do  it.  He 
told  me,  after  either  the  sixth  or  seventh  glass,  I 
forget  which,  that  he  was  looking  for  you.  Come 
on  over  to  the  station  and  inspect  my  outfit, 
please.  I  think  we  had  better  vanish." 

Overland  breathed  once,  deeply.  "Lead  me  to 
108 


Little  O«e  Tenderfoot 

it!"  he  exclaimed.  "You  got  my  number.  I 
guess  you're  some  lame  chicken,  eh?  No?  I'll 
never  call  you  a  tenderfoot  as  long  as  I  live. 
Shake!" 

The  inspection  of  the  outfit  was  brief.  "Take 
the  Colts  and  the  cartridges,  and  the  blankets 
and  the  rope.  T'  hell  with  the  rest." 


CHAPTER  XI 

DESERT   LAW 

AWAY  out  in  the  night  of  stars  and  silence 
plodded  the  patient  burro,  and  beside  him 
shuffled  Overland  Red  and  Billy  Winthrop. 

"We'll  fool  'em,"  said  Overland.  "Keep  jog- 
gin'.  We'll  be  over  the  range  before  mornin'. 
Then  let  'em  find  us." 

Winthrop,  staggering  along,  felt  his  moral 
stamina  crumbling  within  him.  "I  don't  know  — 
about  that.  Perhaps  I  '11  be  a  drag  to  the  expedi 
tion.  I'm  pretty  tired." 

Overland,  experienced  in  the  remorse  that  fol 
lows  liquor  on  an  empty  stomach,  swore  vigor 
ously  and  picturesquely.  "  You  '11  stick !  Do  you 
suppose  I'd  shake  you  now  after  you  over- 
comin'  a  genuine  nickel -plated  desert  constable? 
Nix.  That  ain't  my  style.  You  believed  me  when 
I  said  I  was  comin'  to  this  particular  tovn.  It's 
worth  somethin'  to  have  a  fella  around  that  be 
lieves  a  fella  once  in  a  while.  But  what  I  want  to 
know  is,  why  you  done  up  the  constable  so  off 
hand  like,  not  knowin'  whether  I'd  show  up 
here  or  not?" 

"Why?"  And  Winthrop  smiled  wanly.   "Be- 
110 


Desert  Law 

cause  I  'm  a  perfectly  harmless  little  old  tender 
foot."  And  his  voice  caught  as  he  tried  to  laugh. 

An  hour  of  plodding  through  the  dusk,  two 
hours,  and  they  were  at  a  water-hole  near  the 
northern  hills.  Overland  unroped  one  of  the 
packs,  made  a  fire,  and  presently  had  some  hot 
coffee  for  his  companion,  who  was  pretty  well 
used  up.  Nature  was  taking  inexorable  toll  for 
his  conquest  of  the  constable. 

"You  take  it  easy  and  don't  worry,"  said 
Overland. 

Winthrop  raised  on  his  elbow  and  gazed  at  the 
tiny  fire.  "Tiger,  tiger  burning  bright!"  he 
quoted. 

"This  here  coffee '11  fix  you  right,"  responded 
Overland  Red,  grinning.  "Did  n't  know  I  was  a 
pote,  did  you?  Now  if  I  was  a  doc,  I  'd  give  you 
a  shot  in  the  arm  that  would  put  you  to  sleep. 
Seein'  I  ain't,  it's  coffee  for  yours." 

"Do  you  think  they  will  follow  us?"  Winthrop 
asked  presently. 

"As  sure  as  snakes,"  said  Overland.  "And 
this  heA  water-hole  is  the  first  place  they  '11  strike 
for.  They'll  wait  till  mornin'  to  find  our  trail." 

"When  they  do  find  it?" 

"I'll  show  'em  a  Mexican  trick  with  a  hole  in 
it.  You  go  to  sleep,  pardner." 

The  moon  rolled  down  to  the  rim  of  the  world. 
Ill 


Overland  Red 

The  infinitesimal  mountain  peaks  rose  slowly 
along  the  lower  edge  of  the  flat  silver  shield,  black 
and  growing  bolder  in  outline  and  size  as  they 
blotted  half,  three  quarters,  finally  all  of  the 
burnished  radiance.  Then  along  the  edge  of  the 
far  range  ran  an  instant  delicate  light,  a  light 
that  melted  into  space  and  was  gone,  leaving  a 
palpitating  glory  of  myriad  summer  stars. 

The  little  fire  died  down.  The  barren  outland 
wastes  slumbered  in  the  charitable  dusk  of  night. 

Overland,  cross-legged  on  his  blanket,  smoked 
moodily.  His  thoughts  drifted  out  on  the  tide 
of  silence  to  Moonstone  Canon  and  Collie  and 
the  Rose  Girl,  Louise  Lacharme.  For  them  he 
planned  impossibly.  Of  them  he  dreamed  absurd 
dreams. 

Out  of  the  flotsam  of  his  pondering  came 
memories  of  other  nights  such  as  this,  desert 
nights  on  the  border  ranges  of  old  Mexico  — 
that  lost  world  of  his  adventurous  youth.  Min 
gled  with  his  waking  dreams  were  the  sounds  of 
many  familiar  names  —  Sonora,  Trevino,  Nueva 
Laredo,  Nava,  San  Jose,  Las  Cruces,  Nogales, 
Yuma,  San  Antonio,  —  each  a  burning  ember  of 
memory  that  glowed  and  faded  while  the  music 
of  silver  strings  and  singing  girls  pulsed  rhythmic 
ally  in  the  stillness  --to  break  at  last  into  the 
querulous  wailing  of  a  lone  coyote.  Winthrop 
stirred  restlessly  and  muttered. 


Desert  Law 

All  at  once  the  tramp  realized  that  this  easy 
going  young  Easterner,  wealthy,  unused  to  hard 
ship,  delicate  of  health,  had  his  battle  to  fight,  as 
well.  "I've  knowed  'em  to  get  over  it,"  re 
flected  Overland.  "  She 's  high  and  dry  up  here  on 
the  desert,  and  I  reckon  to  go  where  it's  higher. 
He's  game,  but  he's  desp'rate.  He's  tryin'  to 
dodge  the  verdict,  which  can't  be  did.  Well,  if 
excitement  will  help  any,  I  guess  he's  ridin'  the 
right  range.  If  he 's  got  to  pass  over,  he  might  as 
well  go  quick.  Mebby  he's  the  best  kind  of  a  pal 
for  this  deal,  after  all." 

Overland  looked  across  at  the  muffled  form. 
"Pardner!"  he  called.  Winthrop  did  not  an 
swer. 

"  Well,  it  saves  explainin',"  muttered  the  tramp, 
and  he  rose  quietly.  He  gathered  the  few  camp- 
utensils  together,  rolled  his  blankets,  brushed 
sand  over  the  embers  of  the  fire,  and  groped 
stealthily  toward  the  burro.  He  roped  the  pack, 
glancing  back  toward  the  water-hole  occasion 
ally.  Winthrop  slept  heavily. 

"Guess  I'll  go  back  and  get  that  gun,"  mut 
tered  Overland.  "I  might  need  two;  anyway,  he 
might  wake  up  and  plug  his  old  friend  the  con 
stable  before  he  knowed  it.  I  ain't  givin'  a  whoop 
for  the  constable,  but  I  don't  want  to  see  the  kid 
get  in  wrong." 

.Then  Overland,  wily  and  resourceful  m  border 

113 


Overland  Red 

tactics,  led  the  burro  round  the  camp  in  a  wide 
circle,  from  which  he  branched  toward  the  hills 
to  the  north.  For  two  hours  he  journeyed  across 
the  starlit  emptiness.  Arriving  at  a  narrow 
canon  in  the  foothills,  he  picketed  the  burro. 
Then  he  sat  down.  Why  not  continue  with  his 
pack  and  provisions?  He  could  camp  in  the  fast 
ness  of  the  mountain  country  and  explore  it 
alone.  He  would  run  less  risk  of  capture.  Win- 
throp  was  not  strong.  The  Easterner  meant  well 
enough,  but  this  was  the  desert. 

The  blue  of  the  eastern  horizon  grew  shal 
lower,  changing  to  a  cold  thin  gray  which 
warmed  slowly  to  the  straw  color  of  tempering 
steel.  The  tramp,  watching  the  sky,  shook  his 
clenched  fist  at  the  dawn.  "You,  up  there!"  he 
growled.  "You  didn't  give  me  a  square  deal 
when  I  was  down  and  out  that  time —  in  Sonora. 
I  had  to  crawl  to  it  alone.  But  I'll  show  you 
that  I'm  bigger  than  you.  I'm  goin'  back  to  the 
tenderfoot  and  see  him  through  if  I  swing  pole- 
high  for  it." 

It  was  light  when  the  tramp  had  arrived  at  the 
water-hole.  He  crept  behind  a  sharp  dip  in  the 
hummocks.  The  crest  of  his  hiding-place  was 
covered  with  brush.  It  was  a  natural  rifle-pit 
affording  him  seclusion  and  shelter. 

With  the  sun  came  the  faint  thud  of  hoofs  as 
two  riders  came  warily  up  to  the  water-hole. 

114 


Desert  Law 

One  dismounted  and  stooped  over  Winthrop. 
The  other  sat  his  horse,  silent,  vigilant,  satur 
nine. 

"Say,  where 's  your  pal,  that  there  Overland 
Red  guy?"  asked  the  constable,  shaking  Win 
throp  awake  and  glaring  at  him  with  a  bleared 
and  baleful  eye. 

The  man  on  the  horse  frowned,  considering,  in 
the  light  of  his  experience  as  a  successful  and  still 
living  two-gun  man,  that  such  tactics  were  rather 
crude. 

The  Easterner  sat  up,  coughed  and  blinked  in 
the  dawn.  "Where  is  what?  Why,  good-morn 
ing!  You're  up  early."  And  his  eye  swept  the 
empty  camp.  So  Overland  Red  had  deserted 
him,  after  all.  He  might  have  expected  as  much. 
"I  have  n't  any  'pal,'  as  you  can  see.  I'm  out 
here  studying  insect  life,  as  I  told  you  I  would 
be,  yesterday.  You  need  n't  shake  me  any  more. 
I  'm  awake.  I  can't  say  that  I  'm  exactly  pleased 
with  my  first  specimen." 

"Oh!  I'm  a  specimen,  am  I?  I'm  a  insect, 
hey?  Well,  you're  crooked,  and  you  just  talk  up 
quick  or  the  calaboose  for  yours!" 

"No.  I  beg  your  pardon —  but,  no.  You  are 
in  no  condition,  this  morning,  to  talk  with  a 
gentleman.  However,  you  are  my  guest.  Have 
a  cigar?" 

The  horseman's  eyes  twinkled.  He  admired 
115 


Overland  Red 

the  young  Easterner's  coolness.  Not  so  the  con 
stable. 

"See  here,  you  swindlin'  tin-horn  shell-shover, 
you  cough  up  where  Overland  Red  is  or  there'll 
be  some  thin'  doin'.  You  doped  that  booze  yes 
terday,  but  you  can't  throw  no  bluff  like  that 
to-day." 

"I  did  what?  Please  talk  slowly." 

;<You  doped  that  booze  you — " 

Much  to  the  constable's  surprise  he  found  him 
self  sitting  on  Winthrop's  blankets  and  one  of  his 
eyes  felt  as  though  some  one  had  begun  to  stitch 
it  up  quickly  with  coarse  thread. 
LN  Winthrop,  smiling  serenely,  nodded.  "Sorry 
to  have  to  do  it.  I  know  I  don't  look  like  that 
kind,  and  I'm  not,  but  I  happen  to  know  how." 

The  constable  got  to  his  feet. 

"I  didn't  doctor  the  brandy,  as  you  inti 
mated,"  said  Winthrop.  "And  you  need  n't 
finger  that  belt  of  yours.  I  have  n't  a  gun  with 
me,  and  I  believe  it  is  not  the  thing  for  one  man 
to  use  a  gun  on  another  when  the  —  er  —  vic 
tim  happens  to  be  unarmed." 

The  horseman,  who  had  courage,  admired 
Winthrop's  attitude.  He  rode  between  them. 
"Cut  it  out,  Hicks,"  he  said.  "You're  actin' 
locoed.  Guess  you're  carryin'  your  load  yet. 
I '11  talk  to  the  kid.  We 're  losing  time.  See  here, 
stranger  ..." 

116 


Desert  Law 

Overland,  watching  and  listening  from  his 
hiding-place,  grinned  as  the  constable  sullenly 
mounted  his  horse. 

Winthrop  politely  but  firmly  declined  to  ac 
knowledge  that  he  had  had  a  companion.  Over 
land  was  pleased  and  the  riders  were  baffled  by 
the  young  man's  subtle  evasion  of  answering 
them  directly. 

"Size  of  it  is,  you're  stung,"  said  the  man 
who  had  questioned  Winthrop  last.  "He's  lit 
out,  now  he's  done  you." 

To  this  the  Easterner  made  no  reply. 

The  horsemen  rode  away,  following  the  circle 
of  burro  tracks  toward  the  hills.  Winthrop 
watched  them,  wondering  what  had  become  of 
his  companion.  He  could  hardly  believe  that  the 
tramp  had  deserted  him,  yet  the  evidence  was 
pretty  plain.  Even  his  revolver  was  gone,  and 
his  belt  and  cartridges.  Winthrop  yawned.  He 
was  hungry.  There  was  no  food.  But  there  was 
water.  He  walked  toward  the  water-hole. 

"Stand  still  —  and  listen,"  said  a  voice. 

Winthrop  jumped  back,  startled  and  trem 
bling.  The  voice  seemed  to  come  from  the  water- 
hole  at  his  feet. 

"Over  here  —  this  way,"  the  voice  said. 

Winthrop  smiled.  If  it  were  a  disembodied 
spirit  talking,  it  was  no  other  than  the  spirit  of 
Overland  Red.  The  accent  was  unmistakable. 

117 


Overland  Red 

The  Easterner  glanced  round  and  observed  a 
peculiar  something  behind  the  brush  edging  the 
rise  beyond  the  water-hole. 

"It's  me,"  said  Overland,  still  concealed. 
"Thought  I  quit  you,  eh?  Are  them  fellas  out  of 
sight  yet?" 

"No.  They're  still  in  sight.  They  are  too  far 
to  see  anything,  though." 

"And  you  can  see  them  all  rightr  son?  That 
don't  figure  out  correct." 

Winthrop  laughed.  "That's  so.  Where's  the 
burro?" 

"He's  hid — right  in  plain  sight  up  a  little 
arroyo." 

'  Won't  they  find  him,  and  confiscate  him  and 
the  things?"  ' 

"Not  on  your  life!  'T  ain't  exactly  healthy^ 
even  for  constables,  to  go  round  confiscatin'  out 
fits  they  don't  know  who 's  connected  with.  They 
can't  say  for  sure  that  burro  and  stuff  is  mine. 
They'll  look  it  over  and  leave  it  right  there." 

"But  why  did  you  come  all  the  way  back 
here?  "  asked  Winthrop. 

"Seein'  they's  lots  of  time,  I'll  explain.  If  I 
had  kep'  on  goin',  they  would  'a'  trailed  me,  and 
mebby  got  a  crack  at  me  in  them  hills.  They  are 
two  to  one,  and  they  could  get  me  at  night.  Now 
they  '11  either  give  it  up,  or  spot  my  back  tracks 
and  find  me  here.  That's  all." 

118 


Desert  Law 

66 Perhaps  that  won't  be  all,"  ventured  Win- 
throp,  walking  toward  the  ridge  where  Overland 
lay  concealed. 

The  tramp  grinned  up  at  him.  "  Mebby  not, 
pardner.  You  was  tellin'  Sweeney  Orcutt  back 
in  Los  Angeles  that  you  wanted  to  get  up  against 
the  real  thing.  I  reckon  you  bought  the  right 
ticket  this  trip." 

"Will  they  —  will  there  be  any  shooting?" 
asked  the  Easterner. 

"Not  if  I  can  help  it,"  replied  Overland.  "I 
borrowed  your  gun  on  the  chance  of  it.  'Course, 
if  they  get  sassy,  why,  they 's  no  tellin'  what  will 
happen.  I  'm  mighty  touchy  about  some  things. 
But  listen !  I  'm  actin'  as  your  travelin'  insurance 
agent,  pro  temperly,  as  the  pote  says,  which 
means  keepin'  your  temper.  If  they  do  spot  me, 
and  get  foolish  enough  to  think  that  I  got  time 
to  listen  to  any  arguments  against  my  rights  as 
a  free  and  unbranded  citizen  of  the  big  range, 
why,  you  drop  and  roll  behind  the  first  sandhill 
that  is  a  foot  high.  After  the  smoke  blows  away, 
I'll  be  dee-lighted  to  accept  your  congratula 
tions." 

"I  guess  you  mean  business,"  said  Winthrop, 
becoming  serious.  "I'm  game,  but  isn't  there 
any  other  way  out  of  it?" 

"Not  for  me,  son.  What  chance  would  I  have 
with  the  whole  desert  town  to  swear  against  me? 

119 


Overland  Red 

They're  after  the  gold,  and  they  reckon  to  scare 
me  into  tellin'  where  it  is.  I  'm  after  that  same 
gold,  and  I  don't  reckon  to  be  bluffed  off  by  a 
couple  of  pikers  like  them." 

"The  dark  one,  the  man  on  the  bay  horse, 
seemed  to  be  a  pretty  capable-looking  individ 
ual,"  said  ^inthrop. 

"Glad  you  noticed  that.  You 're  improvin'. 
He  is  a  capable  gent.  He's  a  old  two-gun  man. 
Did  you  see  how  he  had  his  guns  tied  down  low 
so  they  would  pull  quick.  Nothin'  fancy  about 
him,  but  he's  good  leather.  The  other  one  don't 
count." 

"What  shall  I  do  when  they  come  back?" 

"You  jest  go  to  studyin'  bugs  or  rattlesnakes 
or  tarantulas  or  somethin'.  Make  a  bluff  at  it. 
If  they  ask  you  anything,  answer  'em  nice  and 
polite,  and  so  I  can  hear.  A  whole  pile  depends 
on  my  keepin'  up  with  the  talk.  I'll  figure  from 
what  they  say,  or  don't  say." 

"They  seem  to  be  turning.  They've  stopped. 
One  of  them  is  down  on  the  ground  looking  at 
something.  Now  he's  up  again.  They're  riding 
back,"  said  Winthrop. 

"They  cut  my  back  trail,"  said  Overland, 
snuggling  down  behind  the  brush.  "You  go  and 
set  down  by  the  water-hole  and  find  a  bug  to 
study." 

"Are  you  going  to  fight?" 
120 


Desert  Law 

"Not  if  it  can  be  helped.  Otherwise  —  till  me" 
wires  are  down  and  me  lamps  are  out.  She's 
desert  law  out  here.  They  seems  to  be  some 
chance  for  a  argument  about  who's  goin'  to  be 
judge.  I'm  out  for  the  job  myself.  I  reckon  to 
throw  about  fifteen  votes  —  they 's  six  in  your 
gun  and  nine  in  the  automatic.  The  election  is 
like  to  be  interestin'  and  close." 

"I  wish  I  could  help,"  said  the  Easterner. 

"You  can  --by  keepin'  your  nerve,"  replied 
Overland.  Then  he  rolled  a  cigarette  and  lay 
smoking  and  gazing  at  the  sky.  Winthrop 
watched  the  approaching  horsemen.  Presently 
he  got  up  and  sauntered  to  the  water-hole. 

The  tramp  lay  curled  like  a  snake  behind  the 
mound.  He  drew  Winthrop's  gun  from  its 
holster  and  inspected  it,  shaking  his  head  as  he 
slid  it  back  again.  "She's  new  and  will  pull  stiff. 
That  means  she'll  throw  to  the  right.  Well,  I 
got  the  little  Gat.  to  open  up  the  show  with." 

William  Stanley  Winthrop,  despite  his  resolu 
tion,  found  that  his  hands  trembled  and  that  his 
heart  beat  chokingly.  He  wanted  to  shout,  to 
run  out  toward  the  horsemen,  to  do  anything 
rather  than  sit  stupidly  silent  by  the  water- 
hole. 

The  two  riders  loped  up.  The  constable  dis 
mounted.  "Nothin'  doinY'  he  said,  stooping  to 
drink. 


Overland  Red 

"No.  Nothing  doing,"  echoed  the  man  on 
horseback. 

"That,"  muttered  Overland  Red,  squirming  a 
little  higher  behind  the  bushes,  "was  intended 
for  me.  I  know  that  tone.  It  means  there 's  a  hell 
of  a  lot  doin'.  Well,  I'm  good  and  ready."  And 
he  lifted  both  of  his  red,  hairy  hands  to  the  edge 
of  the  hole  and  both  his  hands  were  "filled." 

About  then  the  man  on  the  pony  began  to  ride 
out  from  the  water-hole  in  a  wide  circle.  The 
constable  came  from  the  spring.  Overland  no 
ticed  that  he  kept  Winthrop  between  himself  and 
the  sage  on  the  ridge.  "That  settles  it,"  Over 
land  swiftly  concluded.  "They 're  on.  I'm  right 
sad  to  have  to  do  it." 

The  heavy,  space-blunted  report  of  the  circling 
horseman's  gun  —  and  Overland  calmly  spat  out 
the  sand  that  flitted  across  his  lips.  The  rider 
had  ventured  a  shot  and  had  ridden  behind  a 
ridge  instantly. 

Winthrop  exclaimed  at  these  strange  tactics. 

"He  seen  a  jack  run  in  there,"  explained  the 
constable,  leering. 

"This  here's  gettin'  interestin',"  mumbled 
Overland  as  the  constable  unholstered  his  gun 
and  sauntered  toward  the  ridge.  "I  got  to  get 
the  gent  on  the  cayuse.  The  other  one  don't 
count." 

The  rider  had  appeared  from  behind  the  ridge. 


Desert  Law 

Slowly  Overland  raised  his  right  hand.  Then  the 
old  fighting  soul  of  Jack  Summers,  sheriff  of 
Abilene,  rebelled.  "  No !  Dam'  if  I  '11  ambush  any 
white  man."  And  he  leaped  to  his  feet.  "Over 
land  Limited!"  he  shouted,  and  with  his  battle- 
cry  came  the  quick  tattoo  of  shots.  The  horse 
man  wavered,  doubled  up,  and  pitched  forward 
to  the  sand. 

Overland  Red  dropped  and  rolled  to  one  side  as 
the  constable's  gun  boomed  ineffectually.  The 
tramp  lay  still. 

A  clatter  of  empty  stirrups,  the  swish  of  a 
horse  galloping  past,  and  silence. 

Slowly  the  constable  approached  Overland 's 
prostrate  figure.  "Time's  up  for  you!"  he  said, 
covering  the  tramp  with  his  gun. 

"Water!"  groaned  Overland. 

"Water,  eh?  Well,  crawl  to  it,  you  rat!" 

Wirithrop,  his  heart  thumping  wildly,  followed 
the  constable.  So  this  was  desert  law?  No  word 
of  warning  or  inquiry,  but  a  hail  of  shots,  a  rider 
less  horse,  —  two  men  stretched  upon  the  sand 
and  the  burning  sun  swinging  in  a  cloudless  circle 
above  the  desolate  silence. 

"You  seem  to  kind  of  recognize  your  friend 
now,"  sneered  the  constable. 

That  was  too  much  for  Winthrop's  overstrung 
nerves.  His  pulses  roared  in  his  ears.  With  a 
leap  he  seized  the  constable's  gun  and  twisted 

123 


Overland  Red 

at  it  with  both  hands.  There  was  an  explosion, 
and  Winthrop  grinned  savagely,  still  struggling. 
With  insane  strength  he  finally  tore  the  gun  from 
the  other's  grasp.  "You're  the  only  coward  in 
this  affair,"  he  gasped,  as  he  levelled  the  gun  at 
the  constable.  That  officer,  reading  danger  in 
Winthrop's  eye,  discreetly  threw  up  his  hands. 

"Good!"  exclaimed  Overland,  sitting  up  sud 
denly.  "That  was  risky,  but  it  worked  out  all 
right.  I  had  a  better  plan.  You  go  set  down, 
Billy.  I'll  see  this  gent  safe  toward  home." 

Winthrop  laughed  hysterically.  "Why,  you  — 
you  —  you're  a  joke!"  he  cried.  "I  thought  — >s 

"So  did  the  little  man  with  the  pie-pan  pinned 
on  his  shirt,"  said  Overland.  "You  keep  his  gun. 
I  got  to  see  how  bad  the  other  gent's  hit." 

An  hour  later  the  constable  of  the  desert  town 
led  his  pony  toward  the  railroad.  On  the  pony 
was  his  companion,  with  both  arms  bandaged. 
He  leaned  forward  brokenly,  swaying  and  curs 
ing.  "I'll  —  get  him,  if  it  takes  —  a  thousand 
years,"  he  muttered. 

"I  reckon  it'll  take  all  of  that,"  growled  the 
constable.  "You  can  have  all  you  want  of  his 
game,  Saunders,  —  I'm  through." 

Out  by  the  water-hole,  Overland  turned  to 
Winthrop.  "I'm  glad  you  enjoyed  the  perform 
ance,"  he  said,  grinning.  "We've  opened  the  pot 
and  the  best  man  rakes  her  down.  She's  desert 
kiw  from  now  to  the  finish." 


CHAPTER  XII 

"FOOL'S  LUCK" 

GAUNT,  unshaven,  weary,  Winthrop  rested 
on  the  crest  of  the  northern  range.  Over 
land,  looking  for  water,  toiled  on  down  the  slope 
with  the  little  burro.  Winthrop  rose  stiffly  and 
shuffled  down  the  rocks.  Near  the  foot  of  the 
range  he  saw  the  burro  just  disappearing  round  a 
bend  in  a  canon.  When  he  came  up  with  Over 
land,  the  tramp  had  a  fire  going  and  had  pitched 
the  tent.  The  canon  opened  out  to  a  level  green 
meadow,  through  which  ran  a  small  stream. 
They  had  come  a  long  day's  journey  from  the 
water-hole  on  the  other  side  of  the  range.  They 
were  safe  from  ordinary  pursuit.  That  evening 
beside  the  fire,  Overland  Red  told  again  the  story 
of  the  dead  prospector,  the  gold,  and  the  buried 
papers.  In  his  troubled  slumbers  the  Easterner 
dreamed  of  pacing  along  the  track  counting  the 
ties,  and  eventually  digging  in  the  sand,  digging 
until  his  very  soul  ached  with  the  futility  of  his 
labor.  Waking,  he  never  lost  faith  in  the  cer 
tainty  of  finding  the  place.  He  now  knew  the 
tramp  well  enough  to  appreciate  that  the  other 
had  not  risked  his  own  life  and  nearly  killed  one 

125 


Overland  Red 

of  his  pursuers  through  sheer  bravado,  or  fear,  or 
personal  hatred.  Something  more  potent  was  be 
neath  the  tramp's  motives  — some  incentive  that 
was  almost  a  religion.  So  far,  Winthrop  was  cor 
rect.  He  erred,  however,  in  supposing  Overland 
to  be  obsessed  with  a  mania  for  gold  for  its 
own  sake.  The  erstwhile  sheriff  of  Abilene  had 
dreamed  a  dream  about  an  adopted  waif  and  a 
beautiful  young  girl.  The  dream  was  big.  Its  ful 
fillment  would  require  much  money.  There  was 
more  of  the  poet  in  Overland  Red  than  his  best 
friend  had  ever  imagined. 

Three  days  they  rested  in  the  wild  seclusion  of 
the  canon.  The  silence,  the  solemnity  of  the 
place,  fascinated  Winthrop.  The  tiny  stream, 
cold  and  clear,  the  vegetation,  in  a  region  other 
wise  barren -gray  and  burning,  — the  arid  Mojave 
with  its  blistering  heat,  the  trees,  the  painted 
rocks,  —  ochre,  copper,  bronze,  red,  gray,  and 
dim  lilac  in  the  distances,  —  the  gracious  shade, 
the  little  burro,  half  ludicrous,  half  pathetic  in  its 
stolid  acceptance  of  circumstances,  —  all  had  a 
charm  for  him  that  soothed  and  satisfied  his  rest 
lessness. 

Meanwhile  the  indefatigable  Overland  spun 
yam  after  yarn  of  the  road  and  range,  and  rolled 
innumerable  cigarettes  with  one  hand,  much  to 
Winthrop 's  amusement. 

The  third  morning  Winthrop  had  awakened 
126 


Fool's  Luck 

feeling  so  completely  refreshed  that  he  begged 
Overland  to  allow  him  to  make  an  attempt  to  find 
the  hidden  papers  and  the  little  bag  of  gold. 
Overland  demurred  at  first,  fearing  that  the 
Easterner  would  become  lost  or  stricken  with 
the  heat.  Throughout  the  day  Winthrop  argued 
stubbornly  that  he  ran  no  risk  of  capture,  while 
Overland  did.  He  asserted  that  he  could  easily 
find  the  water-hole,  which  was  no  difficult  task, 
and  from  there  he  could  go  by  compass  straight 
out  to  the  tracks.  Overland  had  told  him  that 
somewhere  near  a  little  culvert  beneath  the  track 
was  the  marked  tie  indicating  the  hiding-place  of 
the  dead  prospector's  things.  It  would  mean  a 
journey  of  a  day  and  a  night,  traveling  pretty 
continuously. 

Finally  Overland  agreed  to  Winthrop's  plan  to 
make  the  attempt  the  following  day. 

At  the  foot  of  the  range  Overland  gave  his 
companion  a!  canteen  and  a  piece  of  gunnysack 
wrapped  round  some  hardtack  and  jerked  beef. 

"Don't  I  need  my  gun  this  time?"  queried 
Winthrop. 

"Nope,  Billy.  'Cause  why?  You  don't  gener 
ally  kill  a  little  gopher  or  a  little  owl  that 's  settin' 
up  tendin'  to  his  business,  because  you  ain't 
scared  of  them.  But  you  will  go  off  of  the  trail 
to  kill  a  rattler,  a  side-winder,  because  he's  able 

127 


Overland  Red 

to  kill  you  if  he  takes  a  notion.  Correct.  Now  a 
tenderfoot  totin'  a  gun  is  dangerouser  than  any 
rattler  that  ever  hugged  hisself  to  sleep  in  the  sun 

—  and  most  fellas  travelin'  the  desert  knows  it. 
Why,  I'm  plumb  scared  of  a  gun-totin'  tender 
foot,  myself.   Not  havin'  a  gun  will  be  your  best 
recommend,   generally   speakin'.     Stick   to   the 
bugs,  Billy;  stick  to  the  bugs." 

"Well,  you  ought  to  know." 

"I  got  seven  puckers  in  my  hide  to  prove  what 
I  say.  Six  of  'em  were  put  there  by  plumb 
amachoors  in  the  gun  line;  fellas  I  never  took 
pains  to  draw  on  quick,  never  suspectin'  nothin'. 
The  other,  number  seven,  was  put  there  by  a 
gent  that  meant  business.  He  died  of  a  kind  of 
lead  poisonin'  right  immediate." 

They  shook  hands,  the  battered,  sunburned 
adventurer,  rough-bearded, broad-chested,  genial 
with  robust  health,  and  the  slender,  almost  deli 
cately  fashioned  Easterner,  who  had  forgotten 
that  there  were  such  things  as  lungs,  or  doctors, 

—  for  the  time  being. 

"Say,  Billy,  you  need  a  shave,"  commented 
Overland,  as  the  other  turned  to  begin  his  jour 
ney  across  the  desert. 

Winthrop  grinned.  uYou  need  —  er  —  de 
capitating,"  he  retorted,  glancing  back.  Then 
he  faced  the  south  and  strode  away. 

Overland,  ascending  the  range,  paused  halfway 
123 


Fool's  Luck 

up.  "Decap-itating,"  he  muttered.  "Huh! 
That's  a  new  one  on  me.  De-cap  — Let's  see! 
Somethin'  to  do  with  a  fella's  hat,  I  reckon.  It's 
easy  to  run  a  word  down  and  hole  it  if  you  got 
brains.  Mebby  Billy  meant  for  me  to  get  a  new 
one.  Well,  the  constable's  friend  only  put  one 
hole  in  her  —  she's  a  pretty  good  hat  yet." 

Overland  found  his  slow  way  back  to  the  hid 
den  canon.  He  felt  a  little  lonely  as  he  thought 
of  Collie.  He  gave  the  burro  some  scraps  of  camp 
bread,  knowing  that  the  little  animal  would  not 
stray  so  long  as  he  was  fed,  even  a  little,  each  day. 

It  was  while  he  was  scouring  the  fry -pan  that 
he  noticed  the  black  sand  across  the  stream.  Lei 
surely  he  rose  and  scooped  a  panful  of  the  sand 
and  gravel  and  began  washing  it,  more  as  a  pastime 
than  with  an  idea  of  finding  gold.  Slowly  he 
oscillated  the  whispering  sand,  slopping  the 
water  out  until  he  had  panned  the  lot.  He  spread 
his  bandanna  on  a  smooth  rock  and  gently  emp 
tied  the  residue  of  the  washing  on  it.  "Color  — 
but  thin,"  he  said.  "Let's  try  her  again." 

He  moved  farther  upstream  —  this  time  with 
one  of  his  regular  pans.  He  became  absorbed 
in  his  experiment.  He  washed  panful  after  pan 
ful,  slowly,  carefully,  collectedly.  Suddenly  he 
stood  up,  swore  softly,  and  flung  the  half-washed 
dirt  of  the  last  pan  on  the  rocks.  "I'm  a  nut!" 

129 


Overland  Red 

he  exclaimed.  "This  livin'  in  civilization  has 
been  puttin'  my  intellec'  to  the  bad.  Too  much 
Eastern  sassiety."  And  with  this  inexplicable  self- 
arraignment  he  stooped  at  the  tent-door,  buckled 
on  his  gun,  and  started  upstream.  He  glanced 
from  side  to  side  of  the  steep  and  narrowing  walls 
as  he  advanced  slowly.  He  passed  places  where 
the  stream  disappeared  in  the  sand  to  find  some 
subterranean  channel  and  reappear  below  again. 
Rounding  an  angle  of  the  cliff,  he  dropped  to  his 
knees  and  examined  some  tiny  parallel  scratches 
on  a  rounded  rock  —  the  marks  made  by  a  boot- 
heel  that  had  slipped.  For  an  hour  he  toiled  over 
the  rocks  on  up  the  diminishing  stream.  "Get-* 
tin'  thin,"  he  muttered,  gazing  at  the  silver 
thread  of  water  rippling  over  the  pebbles.  A  few 
feet  ahead  the  cliffs  met  at  the  bottom  in  a  sharp-* 
edged  "V,"  not  over  a  foot  apart  in  the  stream- 
bed,  but  widening  above.  Overland  scrambled 
through.  On  the  other  side  of  the  opening  he 
straightened  up,  breathing  hard.  His  hand  crept 
to  his  hip.  On  a  sandy  level  a  few  yards  ahead 
of  him  stood  a  ragged  and  faded  canvas  tent,  its 
flap  wavering  idly  in  a  breath  of  wind.  In  front 
of  the  tent  was  the  rain-washed  charcoal  of  an 
old  fire.  A  rusted  pan,  a  pick,  and  the  worn  stub 
of  a  shovel  lay  near  the  stream.  A  box  marked 
"Dynamite"  was  half -filled  with  odds  and  ends 
of  empty  tins,  cooking-utensils,  and  among  the 

130 


Fool's  Luck 

things  was  a  glass  fruit- jar  half  filled  with 
matches. 

Slowly  Overland 's  hand  dropped  to  his  side. 
He  stepped  forward,  stooped,  and  peered  into 
the  tent.  "Thought  so,"  he  said  laughing 
queerly.  Save  for  a  pair  of  old  quilts  and  an  old 
corduroy  coat,  the  place  was  empty. 

"Fool's  luck,"  muttered  Overland.  "Wonder 
the  Gophertown  outfit  did  n't  find  him  and  fix 
him.  But  come  to  think  of  it,  they  ain't  so  anx 
ious  to  cross  over  to  this  side  of  the  range  and  get 
too  clost  to  a  real  town,  and  get  run  in  or  shot 
up.  Fool's  luck,"  he  reiterated,  coolly  rolling  a 
cigarette  and  gazing  about  with  a  critical  eye. 
"They's  another  trail  into  this  canon  that  the 
prospector  knowed.  I  got  to  find  it.  Billy '11  be 
some  interested." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE   RETURN 

OVERLAND  RED  lay  concealed  in  an  ar- 
royo  at  the  foot  of  the  range.    He  coulci 
overlook  the  desert  without  being  seen.    It  was 
the  afternoon  of  the  day  following  Winthrop's 
departure. 

Since  discovering  the  dead  prospector's  camp 
and  all  that  it  meant,  the  tramp  was  doubly  vigi 
lant.  He  tried  to  believe  that  his  anxiety  was  for 
his  own  safety  rather  than  for  Winthrop's.  He 
finally  gave  up  that  idea,  grumbling  something 
about  becoming  "plumb  soft  in  his  feelin's  since 
he  took  to  associatin'  with  sassiety  folks."  How 
ever,  had  Winthrop  been  of  the  West  and  sea 
soned  in  its  more  rugged  ways,  Overland  would 
have  thought  little  of  the  young  man's  share  in 
recent  events.  While  he  knew  that  Winthrop 
looked  upon  their  venture  as  nothing  more  than 
a  rather  keenly  exciting  game,  Overland  realized 
also  that  the  Easterner  had  played  the  game 
royally.  Perhaps  the  fact  that  Winthrop's  health 
was  not  of  the  best  appealed  to  some  hidden  sen 
timent  in  the  tramp's  peculiar  nature.  In  any 

132 


The  Return 

event,  Overland  Red  found  himself  strangely 
solicitous  for  his  companion's  return. 

Far  in  the  south  a  speck  moved,  almost  im 
perceptibly.  The  tramp's  keen  eyes  told  him 
that  this  was  no  horseman.  He  rolled  a  cigarette 
and  lay  back  in  the  shade  of  a  boulder.  "He's  a 
couple  of  points  off  his  course,  but  he  can't  miss 
the  range,"  he  reflected. 

Desiring  to  assure  himself  that  no  horseman 
followed  Winthrop,  Overland  Red  made  no  sign 
that  might  help  the  other  to  find  the  trail  over 
the  range.  The  rim  of  Winthrop's  hat  became 
distinguishable;  then  the  white  lacing  of  his  boots. 
Nearer,  Overland  saw  that  his  face  was  drawn 
and  set  with  lines  of  fatigue. 

No  riders  appeared  on  the  horizon.  Overland 
stepped  out  from  behind  the  rock.  "Well,  how 
did  you  make  it?"  he  called. 

Winthrop  came  forward  wearily  "No  luck  at 
all." 

"Could  n't  find  it,  eh?" 

"I  counted  every  tie  between  the  tank  and 
that  little  ditch  under  the  track.  The  entire 
stretch  has  been  relaid  with  new  ties." 

Overland  whistled.  Then  he  grinned.  "You 
had  a  good  healthy  walk,  anyhow,"  he  observed. 

"It  does  n't  seem  to  worry  you  much,"  said 
Winthrop. 

"  Nope.  Now  you're  back,  it  don't.  I  reckon 
133 


Overland  Red 

you  done  your  dam'dest  as  the  song  says.  Angels 
can  do  no  less.  Buck  up,  Billy!  You're  limper'n 
a  second-hand  porous-plaster.  Here,  take  a  shot 
at  this.  That  will  stiffen  your  knees  some.  Did 
you  meet  up  with  anybody?" 

"Not  a  soul.  I  thought  I  should  freeze  last 
night,  though.  I  did  n't  imagine  the  desert  could 
get  so  cold." 

"Livin'  out  here  on  the  old  dry  £pot  will  either 
kill  you  or  cure  you.  That 's  one  reason  I  let  you 
go  look  for  them  things.  The  harder  you  hit  the 
trail,  and  can  stand  it,  the  quicker  you  '11  get 
built  up."  Then  Overland,  realizing  that  his 
companion  was  worse  than  tired,  that  he  was 
dispirited,  became  as  wily  as  the  proverbial  ser 
pent.  His  method,  however,  could  hardly  be 
compared  with  the  dove's  conciliatory  cooing. 
"You  sure  are  a  bum  scout,"  he  began. 

Winthrop  flushed,  but  was  silent. 

"Bet  a  banana  you  did  n't  even  leave  the  track 
and  look  for  it." 

"No,  I  did  n't.   Where  could  I  have  begun?" 

Overland  ignored  the  question.  "I'm  hun 
grier  than  a  gorilla.  Just  send  a  wireless  to  them 
feet  of  your  'n.  We  got  some  climbin'  to  do  afore 
dark." 

"I'd  just  as  soon  camp  here.  Go  up  to-mor 
row,"  said  Winthrop. 

"So'd  I  if  it  was  n't  for  bein'  scared  some  of 
134 


The  Return 


" 


the  hills  would  mosey  off  before  I  got  back. 
And  Overland  set  a  brisk  pace  up  the  moun 
tain,  talking  as  he  climbed.  Winthrop  could  do 
nothing  but  listen.  He  was  breathless. 

"Or  that  canon,"  continued  Overland.  "She 
might  not  be  there  if  we  stayed  away  all  night. 
Besides,  I'm  scared  to  leave  it  alone  by  itself." 

"Leave  what?"  gasped  Winthrop. 

"It.  The  find  I  made  while  you  was  out  sur- 
veyin'  the  Santa  Fe.  I  was  feared  you'd  get 
nervous  prosecution  if  I  told  you  all  to  once,  so 
I  breaks  it  easy  like." 

"What  was  it?" 

"Nothin'  but  a  tent  in  the  canon  we're  camp- 
in'  in.  But,  Billy,  when  you  find  a  tent  and  some 
minin'  tools  and  other  signs  of  trouble  'way  up 
some  lonesome  old  slot  in  the  hills,  you  want  to 
get  ready  for  a  surprise.  Mebby  it  '11  be  no  thin' 
but  some  old  clothes  and  bones.  Mebby  it'll  be 
them  and  somethin'  else.  I  did  n't  find  the  bones, 
but  I  found  the  somethin'  else,  coarse,  and  fair 
dribblin'  thick  in  the  dirt.  It's  there  and  rich, 
Billy,  rich!" 

Overland  Red  turned  and  paused  as  Winthrop 
leaned  against  a  rock. 

"It's  the  —  the  real  thing?"  queried  the 
Easterner. 

"The  real  thing,  pardner.  Now  what  do  you 
think  of  that  for  high-brow  stuff?" 

135 


Overland  Red 

"Meaning  that  you  stumbled  on  the  secret?" 

"If  you  want  to  say  it  that  way,  yes.  Just  like 
f  allin'  into  a  sewer  and  findin'  a  gold  watch  where 
you  lit." 

"Then  it's  all  true?  We've  found  the  gold? 
You  really  believed  we  should,  and  for  that  mat 
ter,  so  did  I.  I  can't  say  why.  I  rather  felt  that 
we  should." 

"I  guess  I'm  some  class  when  it  comes  to 
findin'  the  incubator  that  hatches  them  little 
yella  babies  with  the  come-and-find-me  eyes." 

Winthrop  straightened  his  tired  shoulders. 
"You  seem  to  think  that  you're  pretty  clever," 
he  said,  laughing.  "But  in  the  elegant  and  ex 
pressive  diction  of  the  late  —  the  late  Overland 
Red  Summers,  'I  think  you're  a  bum  scout." 
And  they  shook  hands,  laughing  as  they  turned 
to  climb  the  trail. 

Near  the  crest,  Overland  again  paused.  "Say, 
Billy,  you  said  the  'late'  Overland  Red  Sum 
mers.  You  took  particular  noise  to  make  me  hear 
that  word  'late.'  Have  you  got  any  objections 
to  explainin'  that  there  idea?  I  been  examinin' 
the  works  of  that  word  'late,'  and  it  don't 
tick  right  to  me.  'Late'  means  'planted,'  don't 
it?" 

"Sometimes.  It  may  also  mean  behind  time. 
Do  you  remember  that  I  said,  a  day  or  two  ago, 
that  I  should  n't  be  surprised  if  the  lost  gold  were 

136 


The  Return 

in  the  very  canon  where  we  camped?  I  claim 
precedence  of  divination,  auto-suggestion,  and 
right  of  eminent  domain.  I  shall  not  waive  my 
prerogative." 

"I  never  owned  one,"  said  Overland.  "But 
afore  I'll  let  you  come  any  style  over  me,  I'll 
have  one  made  with  a  silk  linin'  and  di'monds  in 
the  buttons,  jest  as  soon  as  the  claim  gets  to 
payin'  good.  Say,  pardner,  it's  free  gold,  and 
coarse.  I  wisht  Collie  was  here  —  the  little  cuss." 

"Collie?" 

"Uhuh.  The  kid  I  was  tellin'  you  about,  that 
I  adopted  back  in  Albuquerque.  He 's  got  a  share 
in  this  here  deal,  by  rights.  He  invested  his  eight 
rollers  and  four  bits  in  the  chances  of  my  findin' 
the  stuff.  It  was  all  the  coin  he  had  at  the  time. 
You  see,  I  was  campin'  up  on  the  Moonstone  for 
a  change  of  air,  and  Collie  and  me  had  a  meetin' 
of  the  board  of  dissectors.  The  board  votes  unan 
imous  to  invest  the  paid-in  capital  in  a  suit  of 
new  jeans  for  the  president,  which  was  me.  I  got 
'em  on  now.  You  see,  I  had  to  be  dollied  up  to 
look  the  part  so  I  could  catch  a  come-on  and  get 
m  i  grubstake." 

"I  see,"  said  Winthrop,  his  gray  eyes  twink 
ling.  "And  I  was  the  come-on?" 

"Well,"  said  Overland,  scratching  his  head, 
"mebby  you  was,  but  you  ain't  no  more.  If 
she  pans  out  anything  like  I  expect,  you'll  be 

137 


Overland  Red 

standin'  up  so  clost  to  bein'  rich  that  if  she  was 
a  bronc'  you'd  get  kicked  sure." 

They  rested  for  a  few  minutes,  both  gazing 
down  on  the  evening  desert.  The  reflected  light, 
strong  and  clear,  drew  abrupt,  keen-edged  con 
trasts  between  the  black,  triangular  shadows 
of  the  peaks  and  the  gray  of  the  range.  Some 
thing  elusive,  awesome,  unreal  was  in  the  air 
about  them.  The  rugged  mountain-side  with  its 
chaos  of  riven  boulders,  its  forest  of  splintered 
rocky  spires,  silver  cold  in  the  twilight,  its  im 
passive  bulk  looming  so  large,  yet  a  mere  seg 
ment  in  the  circling  range,  was  as  a  day-dream  of 
some  ancient  Valhalla,  clothed  in  the  mystic 
glory  of  ever-changing  light,  and  crowned  with 
slumbering  clouds. 

Winthrop  sighed  as  he  again  faced  the  range. 
Overland  heard  and  smiled.  "You  said  it  all," 
he  muttered.  "You  said  it  all  then." 

"You're  something  of  a  poet,  are  n't  you?'* 
queried  Winthrop. 

''You  bet!  I'm  some  artist,  too.  A  lady  I  was 
figurin'  on  acceptin'  a  invite  to  dinner  with,  once, 
—  one  of  them  rich  kind  that  always  wants  to 
get  their  money's  worth  out  of  anything  they 
do  for  a  poor  guy,  —  happened  to  come  out  on 
the  back  steps  where  I  was  holdin'  kind  of  a  cor 
oner's  request  over  a  lettuce  san'wich.  'My 
man,'  she  says,  'I  have  always  been  interested 

138 


The  Return 

to  know  if  you  —  er  —  tramps  ever  think  of  any 
thing  else  but  food  and  lodging  and  loafing. 
Nothing  personal,  I  assure  you.  Merely  a  general 
interest  in  social  conditions  which  you  seem  so 
well  fitted  to  explode  from  experience.  For  in 
stance,  now,  what  are  your  favorite  colors?' 

"I  could  n't  see  what  that  had  to  do  with 
it,  and  I  got  kind  of  mad.  A  lettuce  san'wich 
ain't  encouragin'  to  confidence,  so  I  up  and 
says,  'What  are  me  favorite  colors,  lady?  Well, 
speakin'  from  experience,  they  is  ham  and 
eggs' 

"She  took  a  tumble  to  herself  and  sent  me  out 
some  of  the  best  —  and  a  bottle  of  Red  Cross 
beer  with  it." 

On  up  the  slope  they  toiled,  Winthrop  half- 
forgetting  his  weariness  in  thinking  of  Overland's 
sprightly  experiences  with  what  he  termed  "the 
hard  ole  map  —  this  here  world." 

At  the  summit  they  paused  again  to  rest. 

"That  was  the  time,"  began  Overland,  "when 
I  writ  that  there  pome  called  'Heart  Throbs  of 
a  Hobo.'  Listen!" 

"Oh,  my  stummick  is  jest  akein' 
For  a  little  bite  of  bacon, 
A  slice  of  bread,  a  little  mug  of  brew. 
I  'm  tired  of  seein'  scenery, 
Jest  lead  me  to  a  beanery, 

Where  there 's  something  more  than  only  air  to  chew." 
139 


Overland  Red 

"The  last  line  sounds  like  a  sneeze,"  said 
Winthrop,  laughing. 

"Speakin'  of  sneeze,"  said  Overland,  "makes 
me  think  you  ain't  coughed  so  much  lately, 
Billy." 

"I  had  a  pretty  bad  time  yesterday  morning/' 
replied  Winthrop. 

"Well,  you'll  get  cured  and  stay  cured,  up 
here,"  said  Overland,  hugely  optimistic. 

"  Of  course,"  rejoined  Winthrop,  smiling.  "  It 's 
such  hard  work  to  breathe  up  here  that  I  have 
to  keep  alive  to  attend  to  it." 

"That's  her!  Them  little  old  bellowsus  of 
your'n  '11  get  exercise  —  not  pumpin'  off  the 
effects  of  booze  an'  cigarettes,  neither,  but  from 
pumpin'  in  clean  thin  air  with  a  edge  to  it.  Them 
little  old  germs  will  all  get  dizzy  and  lose  their 
holt." 

"That's  getting  rather  deep  into  personali 
ties,"  said  Winthrop.  "But  I  think  you're  cor 
rect.  I  could  eat  a  whole  side  of  bacon,  raw." 

And  he  followed  Overland  silently  across  the 
range  and  down  into  the  cool  depths  of  the  hid 
den  canon,  where  the  tramp,  ever  watchful  of 
the  younger  man's  health,  slipped  from  his  coat 
and  made  Winthrop  put  it  on,  despite  the  lat- 
ter's  protest  that  he  was  hot  and  sweating. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


"CALL  IT  THE  'ROSE  GIRL'" 


are   you  going   to  do  with  those 
things?  "  asked  Winthrop.     "Not  burn 
them?" 

"Yep;  every  strap  and  tie-string,"  replied 
Overland,  gathering  together  the  dead  prospec 
tor's  few  effects.  "Cause  why?  Well,  Billy,  if 
this  claim  ain't  filed  on,  —  and  I  reckon  it  ain't, 
—  why,  we  files  on  her  as  the  original  locators. 
Nobody  gets  wise  to  anything  and  it  saves  the 
chance  of  gettin'  jumped.  The  bunch  over  there 
would  make  it  interestin'  for  us  if  they  knowed 
we  was  goin'  to  file  on  it.  They  'd  put  up  a  fight 
by  law,  and  mebby  one  not  by  law.  Sabe?" 

"I  think  so.  Going  to  burn  that  little  —  er  — 
cradle  arrangement,  too?" 

"Yep.  Sorry,  'cause  it's  wood,  and  wood  is 
wood  here.  That  little  rocker  is  a  cradle  all  right 
for  rockin'  them  yella  babies  in  and  then  out. 
The  hand  that  rocks  that  cradle  hard  enough 
rules  the  world,  as  the  pote  says." 

"So  this  is  how  gold  is  mined?"  queried  Win 
throp,  examining  the  crude  rocker  and  the  few 
rusted  tools. 

141 


Overland  Red 

"One  way.  Pan,  cradle,  or  sluice  for  free  gold. 
They's  about  four  other  ways.  This  here's  our 
way." 

"Is  it  a  rich  claim?" 

"Tolerable.  I  panned  some  up  the  branch. 
She  runs  about  two  dollars  a  pan." 

"Is  that  all?" 

Overland  smiled  as  he  poked  a  smouldering 
corner  of  blanket  into  the  fire.  "It  is  and  it  ain't. 
I  reckon  you  could  pan  fifty  pans  a  day.  That 's 
a  hundred  dollars.  Then  I  could  do  that  much 
and  the  cookin',  too.  That's  another  hundred. 
Two  hundred  dollars  a  day  ain't  bad  wages  for 
two  guys.  It  ought  to  keep  us  in  grub  and  postage 
stamps  and  some  chewin'-gum  once  in  a  while." 

"Two  hundred  a  day!"  And  Winthrop  whis 
tled.  "That  does  n't  seem  much  in  New  York  — 
on  the  street,  but  out  here  —  right  out  of  the 
ground.  Why,  that's  twelve  hundred  a  week." 

"Nope  —  not  exactly.  She's  a  rich  one,  and 
bein'  so  rich  at  the  start  she'll  peter  out  fast,  I 
take  it.  I  know  these  here  kind.  When  we  come 
to  the  end  of  the  canon  we're  at  the  end,  that's 
all.  Besides,  she's  so  rich  we  won't  work  six  days 
every  week.  If  she  was  half  as  good,  mebby  we 
would.  You  never  done  much  fancy  pick-handle 
exercise,  did  you?" 

"No,  but  I'm  going  to.  This  beats  signing 
checks  all  to  pieces." 

142 


The  "Rose  Girl" 

"Never  got  cramps  that  way  myself,"  grunted 
Overland.  "But  I  have  from  swingin'  a  pick. 
Your  back  '11  be  so  blame  stiff  in  about  three  days 
that  you  '11  wish  you  never  seen  a  pan  or  a  shovel. 
Then  you'll  get  over  the  fever  and  settle  down 
sensible.  Three  of  us  could  do  a  heap  better 
than  two.  I  wish  Collie  was  on  the  job." 

"I'm  willing,"  said  Winthrop. 

'  'Course  you  are,  but  you  get  your  half  of  this 
as  agreed.  Collie's  share  comes  out  of  my  half.  I'm 
playin'  this  hand  over  the  table,  in  plain  sight." 

Winthrop  glanced  quickly  at  Overland's  in 
scrutable  face.  "Suppose  I  should  tell  you  that 
my  income,  each  week,  is  about  equal  to  what  we 
expect  to  get  from  this  claim?" 

"Makes  no  difference,"  growled  Overland. 
"It  was  n't  your  money  that  stood  off  the  con 
stable  —  and  later  out  in  the  desert.  It  was  you. 
They 's  some  places  left  on  this  old  map  yet  where 
a  man  is  jest  what  his  two  fists  and  his  head  is 
worth.  This  here  Mojave  is  one  of  'em.  Are 
you  squeak  to  that?" 

"I  understand,"  said  Winthrop. 

They  worked  steadily  until  evening.  They 
staked  out  their  respective  and  adjoining  claims, 
dropped  the  rusted  tools  in  a  bottomless  crevice, 
and  removed  the  last  shred  and  vestige  of  a  pre 
vious  occupancy. 

143 


Overland  Red 

"This  here's  been  too  easy,"  said  Overland, 
as  he  sliced  bacon  for  the  evening  meal.  "When 
things  comes  as  easy  as  this,  you  want  to  watch 
out  for  a  change  in  the  weather.  We  ain't  through 
with  the  bunch  yet." 

The  Easterner,  making  the  evening  fire, 
nodded.  "How  are  we  to  get  provisions?"  he 
asked. 

"First,  I  was  thinkin'  of  packin'  'em  in  from 
Gophertown,  over  yonder.  She's  about  thirty 
miles  from  here,  across  the  alkali.  'T  aint  a  regu 
lar  town,  but  they  got  grub.  But  if  we  got  to 
comin'  in  regular,  they  'd  smell  gold  quicker  than 
bees  findin'  orange-blossoms.  They  got  my  num 
ber,  likewise." 

"How's  that?" 

"They  know  I  been  standin'  out  on  the  edge 
ever  since  I  had  a  little  fuss  with  some  folks  over 
at  Yuma,  quite  a  spell  ago." 

"Won't  you  tell  me  about  it?" 

"Sure!  They  was  three  parties  interested  — 
me  and  another  gent  and  a  hoss.  I  guess  the  hoss 
is  still  alive." 

Winthrop  laughed.  "That's  a  pretty  brief 
epic,"  he  said. 

"Uhuh.  It  was.  But  I  reckon  we  got  to  hit 
the  breeze  out  of  here  right  soon.  Here,  Ie'  me 
take  that  fry -pan  a  minute.  It's  this  way.  Me 
and  you's  located  this  claim.  Now  we  go  and 

144 


The  " Rose  Girl" 

file.  But  first  we  got  to  get  some  dough.  I  got  a 
scheme.  I  'm  thinkin'  of  gettin'  a  dude  outfit  — 
long-tailed  coat  and  checker  pants  and  a  elevated 
lid  with  a  shine  to  it.  Then  you  and  me  to  the 
State  House  and  file  on  this  here  claim.  You  stay 
right  in  them  kickie  clothes  and  that  puncher 
hat.  We  file,  see?  The  gents  supportin'  the  bars 
and  store  corners  will  be  so  interested  in  seein* 
me  do  you  for  your  pile  that  they'll  forget  to 
remember  who  I  am,  like  I  would  be  in  me  nat 
ural  jeans.  They'll  size  me  for  a  phoney  pro 
moter  excavatin'  your  pocketbook.  It's  a 
chance  —  but  we  got  to  take  it." 

"That's  all  very  weird  and  wonderful,"  said 
Winthrop,  "  and  not  so  very  flattering  to  me,  but 
I  am  game.  I'll  furnish  the  expense  money." 

After  the  evening  meal  they  drew  nearer  the 
fire  and  smoked  in  the  chill  silence.  The  flames 
threw  strange  dancing  shadows  on  the  opposite 
cliff. 

Winthrop,  mindful  of  Overland's  advice, 
slipped  on  his  coat  as  the  night  deepened. 
"About  your  adopting  a  disguise,"  he  began; 
"I  should  think  you  would  look  well  enough 
clean-shaven  and  dressed  in  some  stylish,  rough 
tweed.  You  have  fine  shoulders  and  - 

"Hold  on,  Billy!  I'm  a  livin'  statoo,  I  know. 
But  listen!  I  got  to  go  the  limit  to  look  the  part. 
You  can't  iron  the  hoof -marks  of  hell  and  Texas 

145 


Overland  Red 

out  of  my  mug.  in  a  hundred  years.  The  old 
desert  and  the  border  towns  and  the  bottle 
burned  'em  in  to  stay.  Them  kind  of  looks  don't 
go  with  business  clothes.  I  got  to  look  fly  — 
jest  like  I  did  n't  know  no  better." 

"Perhaps  you  are  right.  You  seem  to  make 
a  go  of  everything  you  tackle." 

"Yep!  Some  things  I  made  go  so  fast  I  ain't 
caught  up  with  'em  yet.  You  know  I  used  to 
wonder  if  a  fella's  face  would  ever  come  smooth 
again  in  heaven.  That  was  a  spell  ago.  I  ain't 
been  worry  in'  about  it  none  lately." 

"How  old  are  you?" 

"Me?  I'm  huggin'  thirty-five  clost.  But  not 
so  clost  I  can't  hear  thirty-six  lopin'  up  right 
smart." 

"Only  thirty -five!"  exclaimed  Winthrop. 
Then  quickly,  "Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon." 

"That's  nothin'",  said  Overland  genially. 
"It  ain't  the  ( thirty-five'  that  makes  me  feel 
sore  —  it's  the  'only.'  You  said  it  all  then.  But 
believe  me,  pardner,  the  thirty-five  have  been  all 
red  chips." 

"Well,  you  have  lived,"  sighed  Winthrop. 

"And  come  clost  to  forgettin'  to,  once  or  twice. 
Anyhow,  —  speakin'  of  heaven,  —  I  'd  jest  as 
soon  take  my  chances  with  this  here  mug  of  mine, 
what  shows  I  earned  all  I  got,  as  with  one  of 
them  there  dead-fish  faces  I  seen  on  some  guys 

146 


The  "Rose  Girl" 

that  never  done  nothin'  better  or  worse  than  ge*t 
up  for  breakfast." 

Winthrop  smiled.  "Yes.  And  you  believe 
in  a  heaven,  then?" 

"From  mornin'  till  night.  And  then  more  than 
ever.  Not  your  kind  of  a  heaven,  or  mebby  any 
other  guy's.  But  as  sure  as  you  're  goin'  to  crease 
them  new  boots  by  settin'  too  clost  to  the  fire, 
there's  somethin'  up  there  windin'  up  the  works 
regular  and  seein'  that  she  ticks  right,  and  once 
in  a  while  chuckin'  out  old  wheels  and  puttin'  in 
new  ones.  Jest  take  a  look  at  them  stars!  Do 
you  reckon  they  're  runnin'  right  on  time  and  not 
jumpin'  the  track  and  dodgin'  each  other  that 
slick  —  jest  because  they  was  throwed  out  of  a 
star-factory  promiscus  like  a  shovel  of  gravel? 
No,  sir!  Each  one  is  doin'  its  stunt  because  the 
other  one  is  —  same  as  folks.  Sure,  there's 
somethin'  runnin  the  big  works;  but  whether 
me  or  you  is  goin'  to  get  a  look-in^  —  goin'  to 
be  let  in  on  it,  —  why,  that's  different." 

Winthrop  drew  back  from  the  fire  and  crossed 
his  legs.  He  leaned  forward,  gazing  at  the 
flames.  From  the  viewless  distance  came  the 
howl  of  coyotes. 

"They're  tryin'  to  figure  it  out  —  same  as 
us,"  said  Overland,  poking  a  half-burned  root 
into  the  fire.  "And  they're  gettin'  about  as  far 
along  at  it,  too.  Like  most  folks  does  in  a  crowd 

147 


Overland  Red 

—  jest  howlin'  all  together.  Mebby  it  sounds 
good  to  'em.  I  don'  know." 

"I'm  somewhat  of  a  scoffer,  I  think,"  said 
Winthrop  presently. 

"Most  lungers  is,"  was  Overland's  cheerful 
comment.  "They're  sore  on  their  luck.  They 
ain't  really  sore  at  the  big  works.  They  only 
think  so.  I've  knowed  lots  of  'em  that 
way." 

"To-night,  — here  in  this  canon,  — with  the 
stars  and  the  desert  so  near,  you  almost  persuade 
me  that  there  is  something." 

"Hold  on,  Billy!  You're  grazin'  on  the  wrong 
side  of  the  range  if  you  think  I'm  preachin'. 
My  God!  I  hate  preachin'  worse  than  I  could 
hate  hell  if  I  thought  they  was  one.  My  little 
old  ideas  is  mine.  I  roped  'em  and  branded  'em 
and  I'm  breakin'  'em  in  to  ride  to  suit  me.  I 
ain't  askin'  nobody  to  risk  gettin'  throwed 
ridin'  any  of  my  stock.  Sabe?" 

"But  a  chap  may  peek  through  the  fence  and 
watch,  may  n't  he?" 

"Sure!  Mebby  you're  breakin'  some  stock 
of  your  own  like  that.  If  you  are,  any  little  old 
rig  I  got  is  yours." 

"Thank  you.  And  I'm  not  joking.  Perhaps 
I'll  get  the  right  grip  on  things  later.  I've  been 
used  to  town  and  the  pace.  I've  always  had 
money,  but  I  never  felt  really  clean,  inside  and 

148 


The  "Rose  Girl" 

out,  until  now.  I  never  before  burned  my 
bridges  and  went  it  under  my  own  flag." 

Overland  nodded  sagely.  "Uhuh.  It's  the 
air.  Your  feelin'  clean  and  religious-like  is  nach- 
eral  up  here.  Don't  worry  if  it  ( feels  queer 
to  you  at  first  — you'll  get  used  to  it.  Why,  I 
quit  cussin',  myself,  when  everything  seems  so 
dum'  quiet.  Sounds  like  the  whole  works  had 
stopped  to  listen  to  a  fella.  Swearin'  ain't  so 
hefty  then.  Sort  of  outdoor  stage  fright,  I 
reckon.  Say,  do  you  believe  preachin'  ever  did 
much  good?" 

"Sometimes  I've  thought  it  did." 

"I  seen  a  case  once,"  began  Overland  remin- 
iscently.  "It  was  Toledo  Blake.  He  was  a  kind 
of  bum  middleweight  scrapper  when  he  was 
workin'  at  it.  When  he  was  n't  trainin'  he  was  a 
kind  of  locoed  heavyweight  —  stewed  most  of 
the  time.  It  was  one  winter  night  in  Toledo. 
Me  and  him  went  into  one  of  them  'Come- 
In-Stranger'  rescue  joints.  'Course,  they  was 
singin'  hymns  and  prayin'  in  there,  but  it  was 
warmer  than  outside,  so  we  stayed. 

"After  a  while  up  jumps  the  foreman  of  that 
gospel  outfit.  His  foretop  was  long,  and  he  wore 
it  over  one  ear  like  a  hoss's  when  the  wind  is 
bio  win'. 

"He  commenced  wrong,  I  guess.  He  points 
down  the  room  to  where  me  and  Toledo  was 

149 


Overland  Red 

ejettin',  and  he  hollers,  'Go  to  the  ant,  you  slug 
ger!  Consider  her  game  and  get  hep  to  it/  or 
somethin'  similar. 

"That  word  'slugger'  kind  of  jarred  Toledo. 
He  jumps  up  kind  of  mad.  'Mebby  I  am  a  slug<= 
ger,  and  mebby  I  ain't,  but  you  need  n't  to  get 
personal  about  it.  Anyhow,  I  ain't  got  no  aunt/ 

"'The  text,'  says  the  hoss-faced  guy  on  the 
platform,  'the  text,  my  brother,  is  semaphorical.5 

"Toledo  could  n't  understand  that,  so  I  whis 
pers,  'Set  down,  you  mutt!  Semaphore  is  a 
sign  ain't  it?  Well,  he's  givin'  you  the  sign  talk. 
Set  down  and  listen.' 

"Toledo,  he  had  n't  had  a  drink  for  a  week,  and 
he  was  naturally  feelin'  kind  of  ugly.  'All  right/ 
he  growls  at  the  preacher  guy.  'All  right.  I 
pass/ 

"'Ah,  my  brother!'  says  the  hoss-faced  guy. 
'I  see  the  spirits  is  at  work/  That  kind  of  got 
Toledo's  goat. 

"'Your  dope  is  bum,9  says  Toledo.  'I  ain't 
had  a  drink  for  a  week.  First  you  tell  a  fella  to 
go  see  his  aunt,  when  she's  been  planted  for  ten 
years.  Then  — ' 

"Listen,  brother!'  says  the  preacher  guy.  'I 
referred  to  ants  —  little,  industrious  critters  that 
are  examples  of  thrift  to  the  idle,  the  indignant* 
the—' 

"'Hold  on!'  says  Toledo.  'Do  yon  mean  red 
150 


The  "Rose  Girl' 

ants  or  black  ants? '  And  I  seen  that  a  spark  had 
touched  Toledo's  brainbox  and  that  he  was 
wrastlin'  with  somethin'  that  felt  like  thinkin'. 

"'Either,  my  brother,'  says  the  hoss-faced 
guy,  smilin'  clear  up  to  his  back  teeth. 

"'Well,  you're  drawin'  your  dope  from  the 
wrong  can,'  says  Toledo,  shufflin'  for  the  door. 
'Because,'  says  he,  turnin'  in  the  doorway,  'be 
cause,  how  in  hell  is  a  fella  goin'  to  find  any  ants 
with  two  feet  of  snow  on  the  ground?' 

"And  then  Toledo  and  me  went  out.  It  was 
a  mighty  cold  night." 

Overland  Red  rolled  a  cigarette,  pausing  in  his 
narrative  to  see  whether  Winthrop,  who  sat  with 
bowed  head,  was  asleep  or  not. 

Winthrop  glanced  up.  "I'm  awake,"  he  said, 
smiling.  "Very  much  awake.  I  can  see  it  all  — 
you  two,  down  on  your  luck,  and  the  snow  freez 
ing  and  melting  on  the  bottoms  of  your  trousers. 
And  the  stuffy  little  rescue  mission  with  a  few 
weary  faces  and  many  empty  chairs;  the 
'preacher  guy,'  as  you  call  him,  earnest,  and 
ignorant,  and  altogether  wrong  in  trying  to  rea 
son  with  Toledo  Blake's  empty  stomach." 

"That's  it!"  concurred  Overland.  "A  empty 
stomach  is  a  plumb  unreasonable  thing.  But 
the  preacher  guy  done  some  good,  at  that.  He 
set  Toledo  Blake  to  thinkin'  which  was  some- 
thin'  new  and  original  for  Toledo. 

151 


Overland  Red 

It  was  nex'  spring  Toledo  and  me  was  travelin' 
this  way,  inspectin'  the  road-bed  of  the  Santa 
Fe,  when  we  runs  onto  a  big  red-ant's  nest  in  the 
sand  alongside  of  the  track.  Toledo,  he  squats 
down  and  looks.  The  first  thing  he  sees  was  a 
leetle  pa  ant  grab  up  a  piece  of  crust  twice  his 
size  and  commence  sweatin'  and  puffin'  to  drag 
it  home  to  the  kids. 

"'The  leetle  cuss!'  says  Toledo.  'He's  some 
strong  on  the  lift!'  And  Toledo,  he  takes  the 
piece  of  crust  from  the  pa  ant  and  sticks  it  at  the 
top  of  the  hole,  thinkin'  to  help  the  pa  ant  along. 
But  the  pa  ant,  he  hustles  right  up  and  grabs 
the  crust  and  waves  her  around  his  head  a  couple 
of  times  to  show  how  strong  he  is,  and  then  starts 
back  to  where  he  found  the  crust.  Down  he 
plumps  it  —  gives  it  a  h'ist  or  two  and  then  grabs 
it  up.  He  waves  it  around  in  his  mitts  and  wob 
bles  off  toward  the  hole  again.  Independent? 
Well,  mostly! 

"Toledo,  he  said  nothin',  but  his  eyes  was 
pokin'  out  of  his  head  tryin'  to  think.  You  never 
see  a  man  sweat  so  tryin'  to  get  both  hands  onto 
a  idea  at  once.  His  dome  was  kind  of  flat,  but  he 
could  handle  one  idea,  in  single  harness,  at  a 
time. 

"Anyhow,  the  next  town  we  strikes,  Toledo, 
he  quits  me  and  gets  a  sort  of  chambermaid's 
job  tidyin'  up  around  a  little  old  boiler-factory 

152 


The  "Rose  Girl 


99 


and  machine-shop;  pilin'  scrap-iron  and  pig-iron 
and  little  things  like  that.  And  he  stuck,  too. 

"A  couple  of  years  after  that  I  was  beatin'  it 
on  a  rattler  goin'  west,  and  I  drops  off  at  that 
town.  About  the  first  thing  I  seen  was  Toledo 
comin'  down  the  street.  Alongside  of  him  was  a 
woman  carry  in'  a  kid  in  her  arms,  and  another 
one  grazin'  along  close  behind.  And  Toledo  had 
a  loaf  of  bread  under  his  arm. 

"'This  here  is  Mrs.  Blake/  says  Toledo,  kind 
of  nervous. 

"'I  am  glad  she  is,'  says  I.  'Toledo,  you're 
doin'  well.  Don't  know  nothin'  about  the  leetle 
colt  in  the  blanket,  but  the  yearlin'  is  built  right. 
He's  got  good  hocks  and  first-class  action/ 

"Mrs.  Toledo,  she  kind  of  sniffed  superior, 
but  said  nothin'.  You  know  that  kind  of  sayin* 
nothin'  which  is  waitin'  for  you  to  move  on. 

"'Won't  you  come  up  to  the  shack  and  have 
grub?'  says  Toledo,  hopin'  I'd  say  'No.' 

"'Nope/  says  I.  'Obliged  jest  the  same.  I 
see  you  got  hep  to  the  ant  all  right.' 

"'I'll  let  you  know  I'm  nobody's  aunt!'  says 
Mrs.  Toledo,  yankin'  the  yearlin'  off  his  hoofs 
and  settin'  him  down  again.  For  a  fact,  she 
thunk  I  was  alludin'  to  her. 

'"Of  course  not,  madam/  says  I,  polite,  and 
liftin'  me  lid.  'And  I  judge  somebody's  in  luck 
at  that/ 

153 


Overland  Red 

"I  guess  it  was  her  not  used  to  bein'  spoke  and 
acted  polite  to  that  got  her  goat.  Mebby  she 
smelt  somethin'  sarcastic.  I  dunno.  Anyhow, 
she  was  a  longhorn  with  a  bad  eye.  '  Go  on,  you 
chicken-lifter!'  she  says. 

"Bein'  no  hand  to  sass  a  lady,  I  said  nothin' 
more  to  her.  But  I  hands  Toledo  a  jolt  for  bein* 
ashamed  of  his  old  pal. 

'"Well,  so  long,'  says  I,  kind  of  offhand  and 
easy.  'So  long.  I '11  tell  Lucy  when  I  see  her  that 
you  was  run  over  by  a  freight  and  killed.  Then 
she  can  take  "out  them  papers  and  marry  Mike 
Brannigan  that 's  been  waitin'  in  the  hopes  you  'd 
pass  over.  You  remember  Mike,  the  cop  on 
Cherry  Street.  You  oughta.  He's  pinched  you 
often  enough.  'Course  you  do.  Well,  so  long. 
Little  Johnny  was  lookin'  fine  the  last  I  seen  of 
him.  He's  gettin'  more  like  his  pa  every  day. 
But  I  got  to  beat  it." 

Overland  Red  leaned  back  and  puffed  a  great 
cloud  of  smoke  from  a  fresh  cigarette. 

"Who  was  Lucy?"  asked  Winthrop. 

"Search  me!"  replied  Overland.  "They  was 
n't  any  Lucy  or  nobody  like  that.  But  I'd  like 
to  'a'  stayed  to  hear  Toledo  explain  that  to  Mrs. 
Toledo,  though.  She  was  a  hard  map  to  talk 
to." 

"I  suppose  there's  a  moral  attached  to  that, 
or,  more  properly,  embodied  in  that  story.  But 

154 


The  "Rose  Girl" 

ft  is  good  enough  in  itself  without  disemboweling 
it  for  the  moral." 

"You  can't  always  go  by  ants,  neither,"  said 
Overland. 

Winthrop  nodded.  His  eyes  were  filled  with  the 
awe  of  great  distances  and  innumerable  stars. 
"Gold!"  he  whispered  presently,  as  one  whispers 
in  dreams.  "Gold!  Everywhere!  In  the  sun  — 
in  the  starlight  —  in  the  flowers  —  in  the  flame. 
In  wine,  in  a  girl's  hair.  .  .  .  Gold!  Mystery 
»  .  .  Power  .  .  .  and  as  impotent  as  Fate." 
Winthrop's  head  lifted  suddenly.  "What  shall 
we  call  the  mine?"  he  asked. 

Overland  Red  started,  as  though  struck  from 
ambush.  "How  did  you  guess?"  he  queried. 

"Guess  what?" 

"That  I  was  thinkin'  about  the  claim?" 

"I  did  n't  guess  it.  I  was  dreaming.  Sud 
denly  I  asked  a  question,  without  knowing  that 
I  was  speaking." 

"Mebby  I  was  bearin'  down  so  hard  on  the 
Same  idea  that  you  kind  of  felt  the  strain." 

"Possibly.  That's  not  unusual.  What  shall 
We  call  it?" 

"  Wha—  I  was  thinkin'  of  callin'  it  the  'Rose 
Girl'  after  a  girl  Collie  and  me  knows  up  Moon 
stone  Canon  way." 

"It's  rather  a  good  name,"  said  Winthrop. 
*  Is  the  girl  pretty?" 

155 


Overland  Red 

"Pretty?  Gosh!  That  ain't  the  word.  Her 
real  name  is  Louise  Lacharme,  and,  believe  me, 
Billy,  she's  all  that  her  name  sounds  like,  and 
then  some." 


CHAPTER  XV 

SILENT   SAUNDERS 

ONE  after  another,  in  the  course  of  the  two 
years  following  Collie's  arrival,  the  old 
riders  of  the  Moonstone  Rancho  drifted  away. 
There  remained  but  Brand  Williams  the  foreman, 
Collie,  and  the  sturdy,  hard-riding  Miguel,  a 
young  Spanish  vaquero  who  was  devoted  to  but 
two  things  in  life,  his  splendid  pinto  pony,  and 
the  Moonstone  Ranch. 

The  others  had  been  lured  to  the  new  oil-fields 
up  north  —  to  the  excitement  of  Goldfield,  or  to 
Mexico  City,  where  even  more  excitement 
promised.  In  their  stead  came  new  men  —  Bud 
Light,  Parson  Long,  Billy  Dime,  and  one  Silent 
Saunders. 

Louise  became  acquainted  with  the  new  men 
while  riding  with  her  uncle.  She  was  his  constant 
companion  in  the  hills.  One  by  one  the  new  ar 
rivals  became  devoted  to  her.  Her  sincere  inter 
est  in  the  ranch  work  pleased  them,  and  natu 
rally,  for  it  was  their  work.  Walter  Stone  was 
also  pleased  with  his  niece's  interest  in  the  detail 
of  the  ranch  work.  She  was  as  a  daughter  to  him. 
Some  day  the  property  would  be  hers. 

157 


Overland  Red 

Fully  conscious,  from  within  herself,  of  her  de 
pendence  upon  her  uncle,  Louise  managed  to  be 
of  inestimable  service.  She  performed  her  self- 
allotted  tasks  without  ostentation.  She  had  that 
rare  quality  of  stimulating  enthusiasm  among 
the  men  —  enthusiasm  for  their  work  and  pride 
in  giving  faithful  and  energetic  service  —  pride  in 
accomplishing  a  little  more  each  day  than  was 
asked  or  expected  of  them.  Louise's  youth,  her 
beauty,  her  sincerity,  and,  above  all,  her  absolute 
simplicity  of  manner  commanded  admiration  and 
respect  among  the  hard-riding  Moonstone  boys. 
She  was,  to  them,  a  "lady,"  yet  a  lady  they 
could  understand.  Hers  was  a  gentle  tyranny. 
A  request  from  her  was  deemed  a  great  compli 
ment  by  its  recipient. 

All  of  them,  with  the  exception  of  Collie,  openly 
praised  her  horsemanship,  her  quiet  daring,  her 
uniform  kindness.  Her  beauty  had  ceased  to  be 
commented  upon.  It  was  accepted  by  them  as 
one  accepts  the  fragrant  beauty  of  a  rose,  natu 
rally,  silently,  gratefully. 

Collie  had  gained  in  height  and  breadth  of 
shoulder.  He  no  longer  needed  instruction  in 
managing  broncho  stock.  He  loved  the  life  of  the 
hills;  the  cool,  invigorating  mornings,  the  keen 
wind  of  the  noon  peaks,  the  placidity  of  the  even 
ing  as  the  stars  multiplied  in  the  peaceful  sky. 

He  became  that  rare  quantity  among  cowmen, 
158 


Silent  Saunders 

a  rider  who  handled  and  mastered  unbroken 
horses  without  brutality.  This  counted  heavily 
for  him  both  with  Louise  and  Walter  Stone. 
Men  new  to  the  range  laughed  at  his  method  of 
"gentling"  horses.  Later  their  laughter  stilled  to 
envious  desire.  Lacking  his  invariable  patience, 
his  consistent  magnetism,  they  finally  resumed 
their  old  methods,  and  earned  dominance  by 
sheer  strength  of  arm  —  "main  strength  and 
awkwardness,"  as  Williams  put  it. 

"It's  easy — for  him,"  commented  Brand 
Williams,  discussing  Collie's  almost  uncanny 
quelling  of  a  vicious,  unbitted  mustang.  "It's 
easy.  You  fellas  expect  a  boss  to  buck  and  bite 
and  kick  and  buffalo  you  generally.  He  don't. 
He  don't  expect  anything  like  that,  and  he  don't 
let  'em  learn  how." 

"Can  you  work  it  that  way?"  asked  Billy 
Dime. 

"Nope.  I  learned  the  other  way  and  the 
bosses  knows  it.  I  always  had  to  sweat.  He's 
born  to  it  natural,  like  a  good  cow-pony  is." 

And  Collie  looked  upon  his  work  as  a  game  — 
a  game  that  had  to  be  played  hard  and  well,  but  a 
game,  nevertheless.  Incidentally  he  thought  often 
of  Overland  Red.  He  had  searched  the  papers 
diligently  for  a  year,  before  he  received  the  first 
letter  from  Overland.  The  news  it  contained  set 
Collie  to  thinking  seriously  of  leaving  the  Moon- 

159 


Overland  Red 

stone  Rancho  and  joining  his  old  companion  in 
this  new  venture  of  gold-digging  which,  as  Over 
land  took  pains  to  explain,  was  "paying  big." 
But  there  was  Louise.  .  .  .  They  were  great 
friends.  They  had  even  ridden  to  town  together 
and  attended  the  little  white  church  in  the 
eucalyptus  grove.  .  .  .  He  thought  of  their  ride 
homeward  late  that  Sunday  afternoon.  .  .  . 

Once  and  once  only  had  Overland 's  name  been 
mentioned  in  the  bunk-house.  Saunders,  dis 
cussing  horses  and  riders  in  general,  listened  to 
Collie's  account  of  Overland's  escape  from  the 
deputy,  Tenlow.  Then  he  spoke  slightingly  of  the 
feat,  claiming  that  any  man  who  had  ever  ridden 
range  could  do  as  much,  with  the  right  pony. 

Brand  Williams  tried  to  change  the  subject,  for 
shrewd  reasons  of  his  own,  but  Collie  flamed  up 
instantly.  "I  got  a  little  saved  up,"  he  said; 
"mebby  eight  hundred.  She's  yours  if  you  dast 
to  walk  a  horse,  comin'  or  goin',  over  that  drift 
that  Red  took  on  the  jump.  Are  you  game?" 

"I'm  not  on  the  bet,"  replied  Saunders.  "So 
Overland  Red  is  a  friend  of  yours,  eh?" 

"Overland  Red  could  ride  where  you  dassent  to 
walk  and  drag  a  halter,"  asserted  Collie.  Then  he 
relapsed  to  silence,  a  little  ashamed  in  that  he  had 
been  trapped  into  showing  temper. 

Williams  the  taciturn  astonished  the  bunk- 
160 


Silent  Saunders 

touse  by  adding:  "The  kid  is  right.  Red  could 
outride  most  men.  I  was  his  pal  once,  down  in 
Sonora.  There  ain't  a  better  two-gun  artist 
livin'."  And  the  lean  foreman  looked  pointedly 
at  Saunders. 

Saunders  smiled  evilly.  He  had  reason  to  be 
lieve  that  Williams  had  spoken  the  truth. 

A  few  weeks  later,  Williams,  returning  unex 
pectedly  to  the  bunk-house,  found  Saunders 
changing  his  shirt  preparatory  to  a  ride  to  town. 
The  rest  of  the  boys  were  already  on  their  way  to 
the  Oro  Rancho  across  the  valley.  Williams  saw 
two  puckered  scars,  each  above  the  elbow  on 
Saunders's  bared  arms. 

"That  was  dam'  good  shootin',"  said  the  fore 
man,  indicating  the  other's  scarred  arms. 

"Fair,"  said  Saunders  gruffly. 

"Takes  a  gun-artist  to  put  a  man  out  of  busi 
ness  that  way  and  not  finish  him,"  said  Williams, 
smiling. 

"Cholo  mix-up,"  said  Saunders. 

"And  shootin'  from  the  ground,  at  that,"  con 
tinued  Williams.  "And  at  a  fella  on  a  horse. 
Easy  to  see  that,  for  the  both  holes  are  slantin" 
up.  The  shootin'  was  done  from  below." 

Saunders  flushed.  He  was  about  to  speak  when 
Williams  interrupted  him.  "Makes  me  think  of 
some  of  Overland  Red's  —  that  is,  old  Red  Jack 

161 


Overland  Red 

Summers's  fancy  work.  I  don'  know  why,"  he 
drawled,  and  turning  he  left  the  bunk-house. 

Collie,  returning  from  a  visit  to  the  Oro 
Rancho  that  evening,  was  met  by  Williams.  The 
latter  was  on  foot. 

"Drop  into  my  shack  after  dark,"  said  the 
foreman.  Then  he  stepped  back  into  the  bushes 
as  the  other  men  rode  up. 

The  foreman's  interview  with  Collie  that  even 
ing  was  brief.  It  left  a  lot  to  the  imagination. 
"You  said  too  much  about  Overland  Red  the 
other  night,  when  you  was  talkin'  to  Silent 
Saunders,"  said  Williams.  "He's  tryin'  to  find 
out  somethin'.  I  don't  know  what  he's  after. 
Keep  your  eye  peeled  and  your  teeth  on  the  bit* 
That's  all." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

BLUNDER 

OH,  he 's  built  all  right,  and  he  comes  of  good 
stock,"  said  Brand  Williams,  nodding 
toward  a  bay  colt  that  stood  steaming  in  the 
sun. 

It  had  rained  the  night  before  —  an  unex 
pected  shower  and  the  last  of  the  winter  rains. 
Now  that  the  snow  had  left  the  hills,  the  young 
stock,  some  thirty-odd  year-old  colts  had  been 
turned  into  the  north  range.  Collie  and  Wil 
liams  had  ridden  over  to  look  at  the  colts; 
Williams  as  a  matter  of  duty,  Collie  because  he 
was  interested  and  liked  Williams's  society. 

The  colt,  shaking  itself,  turned  and  nipped  at 
its  shoulder  and  switched  its  tail. 

"He's  stayed  fat,  too,"  continued  Williams. 
"But  look  at  him!  He's  bitin'  and  switchin'  be 
cause  he's  wet.  Thinks  it's  fly-time  a'ready. 
He's  jest  a  four-legged  horse-hide  blunder.  I 
know  his  kind." 

Collie,  dismounting  and  unbuttoning  his 
slicker,  rolled  it  and  tied  it  to  the  saddle.  "I 
guess  you  're  right,  Brand.  Last  week  I  was  over 
this  way.  He  had  his  head  through  the  corral 

163 


Overland  Red 

kars  at  the  bottom  and  he  could  n't  get  loose. 
He  was  happy,  though.  He  must  have  been  there 
quite  a  spell,  for  he  ate  about  half  a  bale  of  hay. 
I  got  him  loose  and  he  tried  his  darndest  to  kick 
my  head  off." 

"Uhuh,"  grunted  the  foreman.  "Reckon  it's 
the  last  rain  we  '11  get  this  year.  Now  would  you 
look  at  that!  He's  the  limit!" 

The  colt,  sniffing  curiously  at  a  crotch  in  the 
live-oak  against  which  he  had  been  rubbing,  had 
stepped  into  the  low  fork  of  the  tree.  Perhaps 
he  had  some  vague  notion  to  rub  both  his  sides  at 
once  as  an  economy  of  effort.  His  front  feet  had 
slipped  on  the  wet  ground.  He  went  down, 
wedged  fast.  He  struggled  and  kicked.  He  nick 
ered  plaintively,  and  rolled  his  terror-stricken 
eyes  toward  the  cowmen  in  wild  appeal. 

"And  like  all  of  his  kind,  hoss  and  human," 
said  Williams,  dismounting,  "he's  askin'  for  help 
in  a  voice  that  sounds  like  it  was  our  fault  that 
he's  in  trouble.  He 's  the  limit !" 

With  much  labor  they  finally  released  the  colt, 
who  expressed  prompt  gratitude  by  launching 
a  swift  and  vicious  kick  at  Collie. 

"He's  feeling  good  enough,"  said  that  youth, 
coolly  picking  up  his  hat  that  had  dropped 
as  he  dodged. 

"Yes.  All  he  needs  is  a  couple  of  punchers  and 
a  boss-doctor  and  a  policeman  to  ride  round  with 

164 


Blunder 

him  and  keep  him  out  of  trouble.  He's  no  ac 
count;  never  will  be,"  growled  Williams. 

"I  don't  know,  Brand.  He's  a  mighty  likely- 
looking  and  interesting  specimen.  He's  different. 
I  kind  of  like  him." 

"Well,  I  don't.  I  ain 't  got  time.  He's  always 
goin'  to  manufacture  trouble,  when  he  don't 
come  by  it  natural.  He's  got  a  kind  eye,  but  no 
brains  behind  it." 

They  mounted  and  rode  up  the  hill,  looking  for 
breaks  in  the  fences  and  counting  the  colts,  some 
of  whom,  luxuriously  lazy  in  the  heat  of  the  sun, 
stood  with  lowered  heads,  drowsing.  Others,, 
scattered  about  the  hillsides  and  in  the  arroyos, 
grazed  nippingly  at  the  sparse  bunch-grass,  mov 
ing  quickly  from  clump  to  clump. 

The  "blunder"  colt  seemed  to  find  his  own 
imbecilities  sufficiently  entertaining,  for  he  grazed 
alone. 

The  foreman's  inspection  terminated  with  the 
repairing  of  a  break  in  the  fence  inclosing  the 
spring-hole,  a  small  area  of  bog-land  dotted  with 
hummocks  of  lush  grass.  Between  the  hum 
mocks  was  a  slimy,  black  ooze  that  covered  the 
bones  of  more  than  one  unfortunate  animal.  The 
heavy,  ripe  grass  lent  an  appearance  of  stability, 
of  solidity,  to  the  treacherous  footing. 

Williams  and  Collie  reinforced  the  sagging 
posts  with  props  of  fallen  limbs  and  stones  car- 

165 


Overland  Red 

ried  from  the  trail  below.  They  piled  brush 
where  the  wire  had  parted,  filling  the  opening 
with  an  almost  impassable  barrier  of  twisted 
branches.  Until  the  last  rain,  the  spring-hole 
fence  had  appeared  solid  —  but  one  night  of  rain 
in  the  California  hills  can  work  unimaginable 
changes  in  trail,  stream-bed,  or  fence  line. 

"Get  after  that  fence  first  thing  in  the  morn- 
ing,"  said  Williams  as  he  unsaddled  the  pinto 
that  afternoon.  "I  noticed  the  blunder  colt  fol 
lowed  us  up  to  the  spring.  If  there 's  any  way  of 
gettin'  bogged,  he'll  find  it,  or  invent  a  new  way 
for  himself." 

The  blunder  colt's  mischief -making  amounted 
to  absolute  genius.  There  was  much  of  the  enter 
prising  puppy  in  his  nature  and  in  his  methods. 
The  impulse  which  seemed  to  direct  the  ex 
tremely  uneven  tenor  of  his  way  would  have  re 
solved  itself  orally  into:  "Do  it  —  and  then  see 
what  happens!"  He  was  not  vicious,  but  brain- 
lessly  joyful  in  his  mischief. 

As  the  foreman  and  Collie  disappeared  beyond 
the  crest  of  the  hill,  the  colt,  who  had  watched 
them  with  absurdly  stupid  intensity,  lowered  his 
head  and  nibbled  indifferently  at  the  grass  along 
the  edge  of  the  spring-hole  fence.  He  approached 
the  break  and  sniffed  at  the  props  and  network 
of  branches.  This  was  interesting!  And  a  very 
carelessly  constructed  piece  of  fence,  indeed !  He 

166 


Blunder 

would  investigate.  The  blunder  colt  was  never 
too  hungry  to  cease  grazing  and  turn  toward 
adventure. 

He  nosed  one  of  the  props.  He  leaned  against 
it  heavily,  deliberately,  and  rubbed  himself. 
Verily  "His  eye  had  all  the  seeming  of  a  de 
mon's  that  is  dreaming" — of  unalloyed  mis 
chief. 

The  prop  creaked,  finally  became  loosened,  and 
fell.  The  colt  sprang  back  awkwardly,  snorting  in 
indignant  surprise.  "The  very  idea!"  he  would 
have  said,  even  as  he  would  have  chewed  gum 
and  have  worn  a  perpetual  tear  in  his  trousers 
had  he  been  human. 

With  stiff  stealthiness  he  approached  the  break 
again,  pretending  a  hesitancy  that  he  enjoyed 
immensely.  He  reached  under  the  lower  wire, 
neck  outstretched,  and  nibbled  at  a  bunch  of  ripe 
grass.  There  was  plenty  of  grass  within  easier 
reach,  but  he  wanted  the  unattainable.  A  barb 
caught  in  his  mane.  He  jerked  his  head  up.  The 
barb  pricked  his  neck.  He  jerked  harder.  Another 
prop  became  loosened.  Then  he  strode  away,  this 
time  with  calm  indifference.  He  pretended  to 
graze,  but  his  eye  roved  back  to  the  break.  His 
attitude  expressed  a  sly  alertness  —  something  of 
the  quiet  vigilance  a  grazing  horse  betrays  when 
one  approaches  with  a  bridle.  He  drew  nearer 
the  fence  again.  With  head  over  the  top  wire  he 

167 


Overland  Red 

gazed  longingly  at  the  clumps  of  grass  on  the 
hummocks  scattered  over  the  muck  of  the  over 
flow.  His  shoulder  needed  scratching.  With 
drooping  head,  eyes  half-closed,  and  lower  lip 
pendant,  he  rubbed  against  the  loosened  post.  The 
post  sagged  and  wobbled.  Whether  it  was  deliber 
ate  intent,  or  just  natural  "horse"  predominating 
his  actions,  it  would  be  difficult  to  determine. 
Finally  the  post  gave  way  and  fell.  The  colt 
drew  back  and  contemplated  the  opening  with  a 
vacuous  eye.  It  was  not  interesting  now.  No, 
indeed!  He  wandered  away. 

But  in  the  dusk  of  that  evening,  when  a  chill 
dew  sparkled  along  the  edges  of  the  bog,  he  came, 
a  clumsy  shadow  and  grazed  among  the  hum 
mocks.  Slowly  he  worked  toward  the  treachery 
of  black  ooze  that  shone  in  the  starlight.  He 
sank  to  his  fetlocks.  He  drew  his  feet  up  one  after 
another,  still  progressing  toward  the  centre  of  the 
bog,  and  sinking  deeper  at  each  step.  He  became 
stricken  with  fear  as  he  sank  to  his  hocks.  He 
plunged  and  snorted.  The  bog  held  him  with  a 
soft,  detaining  grip  —  and  drew  him  slowly 
down.  He  nickered,  and  finally  screamed  in  abso 
lute  terror.  Up  to  his  heaving  belly  the  black 
mud  crept.  He  flung  himself  sideways.  Ex 
hausted,  he  lay  with  neck  and  head  outstretched. 
Again  he  struggled,  his  eyes  wild  and  protruding 
with  the  blood  pressure  of  his  straining.  Then  the 

168 


Blunder 

chill  of  night  crept  over  him.  He  became  quiet  — 
shivered  a  little,  and  nickered  faintly. 

In  the  willows  a  little  owl  called  pensively. 

The  morning  light,  streaming  across  the  hills, 
spread  like  raw  gold  over  the  bog.  Collie  whis 
tled  as  he  rode  down  the  trail,  and  beat  his  gloved 
hands  to  keep  warm.  He  heard  a  plaintive 
whinny  and  a  bubbling  gasp.  He  leaped  from  his 
pony,  the  coiled  riata  in  his  hand  as  he  touched 
the  ground. 

The  blunder  colt,  neck  outstretched,  was  still 
above  the  ooze.  His  eyes  were  bloodshot,  as  their 
white  rims  showed.  His  nose  quivered  and  twisted 
with  his  quick,  irregular  breathing. 

It  was  a  "two-man  job,"  but  Collie  knew  that 
the  colt  would  probably  be  gone  before  he  could 
ride  back  and  return  with  help.  He  swung  the 
riata,  then  hesitated.  To  noose  the  colt's  neck 
would  only  result  in  strangling  it  when  he  pulled. 
He  found  a  branch  large  enough  to  stiffen  the 
brush  near  the  break.  Swiftly  he  built  a  shaky 
footing  and  crept  out  toward  the  colt.  By  shov 
ing  the  riata  under  the  colt's  belly  with'a  forked 
stick,  and  fishing  the  loose  end  up  on  the  other 
side,  he  managed  to  get  a  loop  round  the  ani 
mal's  hind  quarters.  He  mounted  his  own  horse 
and  took  a  turn  of  the  riata  round  the  saddle- 
horn. 

169 


Overland  Red 

His  pony  set  its  feet  and  leaned  to  the  work. 
Slowly  the  colt  was  drawn  to  solid  ground. 

He  was  a  pitiful  object  as  he  lay  panting  and 
shivering,  plastered  with  mud  and  black  slime, 
and  almost  dead  from  shock  and  chill.  Collie 
spread  his  slicker  over  him  and  rode  up  the  hill  at 
a  trot.  The  blunder  colt  raised  its  head  a  little, 
then  dropped  it  and  lay  motionless. 

When  Collie  and  Billy  Dime  returned  with 
gunnysacks  and  an  old  blanket,  the  sun  had 
warmed  the  air.  The  mud  on  the  colt's  side  and 
neck  had  begun  to  dry. 

Billy  Dime  commented  briefly.  "  He 's  a  goner. 
He's  froze  clean  to  his  heart.  Why  did  n't  you 
leave  him  where  he  was?" 

Collie  spread  the  gunnysacks  on  a  level  beneath 
a  live-oak,  beneath  which  they  dragged  the  colt 
and  covered  him  with  the  blanket.  They  gave 
him  whiskey  with  water  that  they  heated  at  a 
little  fire  of  brush.  The  colt  lifted  its  head,  en 
deavoring  spasmodically  to  get  to  its  feet. 

"He's  wearin'  hisself  out.  He  ain't  got  much 
farther  to  go,"  said  Billy  Dime,  mounting  and 
turning  his  pony.  "Come  on,  kid.  If  he's  alive 
to-morrow  mornin'  —  good  enough." 

"I  think  I'll  stay  awhile,"  said  Collie.  "Brand 
says  he  is  n't  worth  saving,  but  —  I  kind  of  like 
the  cuss.  He's  different." 

170 


Blunder 

"Correct,  nurse,  he  is.  You  can  telephone  me 
if  the  patient  shows  signs  of  bitin'  you.  Keep 
tabs  on  his  pulse  —  give  him  his  whiskey  regu 
lar,  but  don't  by  no  means  allow  him  to  set  up  in 
bed  and  smoke.  I  '11  call  again  nex'  year.  So  long, 
sweetness." 

"You  go  plump!"  laughed  Collie. 

And  Billy  Dime  rode  over  the  hill  singing  a 
dolefully  cheerful  ditty  about  burying  some  one 
on  the  "lo-o-ne  prairee."  To  him  a  horse  was 
merely  something  useful,  so  long  as  it  could  go. 
When  it  could  n't  go,  he  got  another  that  could. 

Collie  replenished  the  smoking  fire,  scraped 
some  of  the  mud  from  the  colt's  thick,  winter 
coat,  and  heated  a  half-dozen  large  stones. 

His  brother  cowmen  would  have  laughed  at 
these  "tender  ministrations,"  and  Collie  himself 
smiled  as  he  recalled  Billy  Dime's  parting 
directions. 

Collie  placed  the  heated  stones  round  the 
shivering  animal,  re-dried  the  blanket  at  the  fire, 
and  covered  the  pitifully  weak  and  panting  crea 
ture.  The  colt's  restless  lifting  of  its  head  he 
overcame  by  sitting  near  it  and  stroking  its  muz 
zle  with  a  soothing  hand. 

Time  and  again  he  rose  to  re-heat  the  stones 
and  replenish  the  fire.  The  colt's  breathing  be 
came  less  irregular.  He  gave  it  more  of  the  hot 
whiskey  and  water. 

171 


Overland  Red 

Then  he  mended  the  fence.  He  had  brought 
an  axe  with  him  and  a  supply  of  staples. 

Toward  mid-afternoon  he  became  hungry  and 
solaced  himself  with  a  cigarette. 

Again  the  blunder  colt  became  restless,  show 
ing  a  desire  to  rise,  but  for  lack  of  strength  the 
desire  ended  with  a  swaying  and  tossing  of  its 
head. 

Evening  came  quickly.  The  air  grew  bitingly 
chill.  Collie  wished  that  one  of  the  boys  would 
bring  him  something  to  eat.  The  foreman  surely 
knew  where  he  was.  Collie  could  imagine  the 
boys  joking  about  him  over  their  evening 
"chuck." 

With  the  darkness  he  drew  on  his  slicker  and 
squatted  by  the  fire.  He  fell  asleep.  He  awoke 
shivering,  to  find  the  embers  dull.  The  stars 
were  intensely  brilliant  and  large. 

Once  during  the  evening  he  made  up  his  mind 
to  return  to  the  ranch-house,  but  a  stubborn  de 
termination  to  save  the  colt,  despite  the  ridicule 
he  knew  he  would  elicit,  held  him  to  his  task. 
Should  he  leave,  the  colt  might  become  chilled 
again  and  die.  Then  he  would  be  open  to  ridicule. 
Collie  reasoned  that  he  must  finish  the  task  as  he 
had  begun  it  —  thoroughly. 

Again  he  heated  the  stones,  warmed  the  blan 
ket,  and  gave  "Blunder,"  as  he  now  called  him 
affectionately,  some  hot  whiskey.  Then  he  built 

172 


Blunder 

a  larger  fire,  wrapped  himself  in  his  saddle- 
blankets,  and,  with  feet  to  the  blaze,  slept.  His 
own  pony  grazed  at  large,  dragging  a  rope. 

Habit  brought  Collie  awake  early.  The  fire  had 
gone  out.  He  was  stiff  with  cold.  Arising,  he 
glanced  at  the  heap  beneath  the  blanket  ringed 
with  stones.  "Time  to  eat!"  he  cried  lustily,  and 
whipped  the  blanket  from  the  mud-encrusted 
Blunder.  The  colt  raised  its  head,  struggled,  put 
out  one  stiff  fore  leg,  and  then  the  other.  Collie 
grabbed  the  animal's  tail  and  heaved.  Blunder 
humped  himself  —  and  was  on  his  feet,  wob 
bling,  dizzy-eyed,  scandalously  "mussed  up"  — 
but  alive! 

"Whoop-ee!"  shouted  Collie  as  the  colt  stag 
gered  a  pace  or  two  trying  his  questionable 
strength.  "Gee!  But  I'm  hungry !" 

The  Blunder,  a  mere  caricature  of  a  horse  in 
pose  and  outward  seeming,  gazed  at  his  rescuer 
with  stupid  eyes.  He  had  not  the  faintest  idea 
what  all  the  joy  was  about,  but  something  deep 
in  his  horse  nature  told  him  that  the  boisterous 
youth  was  his  friend.  Timidly  he  approached 
Collie,  wagged  his  head  up  and  down  experi 
mentally,  as  if  trying  his  neck  hinges,  and  reached 
out  and  nuzzled  the  young  man's  hand,  nipping 
playfully  at  his  fingers. 

Collie  was  dumbfounded.  "He's  thankin*  me 
—  the  little  cuss!  Why,  you  rubber-kneed,  wa- 

173 


Overland  Red 

ter-eyed  mud  turtle  you !  I  did  n't  know  you  had 
that  much  sense." 

The  youth  did  not  hear  the  regular  beat  of 
hoofs  as  Williams  loped  up,  until  the  colt,  stilt- 
legged,  emitted  a  weak  nicker.  Collie  turned. 

Williams  smiled  grimly.  "  Knew  you  'd  stick,'5 
he  said. 

He  gazed  at  the  revived  colt,  the  circle  of 
stones,  and  the  blanket.  He  made  no  comment. 

Collie  caught  up  his  pony  and  mounted.  As 
they  rode  over  the  hill  together,  Williams,  turn 
ing  in  the  saddle,  laughed  and  pointed  down 
toward  the  arroyo. 

The  blunder  colt,  apparently  overjoyed  to  be 
alive,  had  ambled  awkwardly  up  to  one  of  his 
mates  who  stood  stolidly  waiting  for  the  sun  to 
warm  him.  The  other  colt,  unused  to  the  Blun 
der's  society  and  perhaps  unfavorably  impressed 
by  his  dissipated  appearance,  received  this 
friendly  overture  with  a  pair  of  punishing  hoofs. 
Blunder  staggered  and  fell,  but  scrambled  to  his 
feet  again,  astonished,  indignant,  highly  of 
fended. 

"If  you  was  to  drive  that  blunder  colt  up  to 
horse-heaven  and  he  knew  it  was  horse-heaven, 
you  'd  have  to  turn  him  around  and  back  him  in* 
Then  I  reckon  he'd  bust  the  corral  tryin'  to  get 
out  again." 

Collie  grinned.  "Well,  I  would  n't  this  morn- 
174 


Blunder 

ing  —  if  there  was  anything  to  eat  there,  even 
hay." 

"Well,  you  don't  get  your  breakfast  at  the 
chuck-house  this  morning,"  said  Williams  gruffly. 

"I  don't,  eh?  Since  when?" 

Williams  again  turned  in  his  saddle,  observing 
Collie  for  a  minute  before  he  spoke.  "  I  see  you  're 
smilin',  so  I'll  tell  you.  Since  when?  Well,  since 
about  two  hours  ago,  when  Miss  Louise  come 
steppin'  over  to  the  bunk-house  and  asks  where 
you  are.  Billy  Dime  ups  and  tells  her  you  was 
sick-nursin'  the  blunder  colt.  She  did  n't  smile, 
but  turned  to  me  and  asked  me.  I  told  her  about 
what  was  doin'.  I  seen  she  had  it  in  for  some 
body.  It  was  me.  *  Brand,'  she  says,  quiet-like, 
'is  it  customary  on  the  Moonstone  for  lunch  or 
dinner  to  be  taken  to  the  men  that  are  staying 
out  from  camp?' 

"'Yes,  ma'am,'  says  I. 

"And  the  plumb  hell  of  it  was,"  continued 
Williams,  "she  did  n't  say  another  word.  I  wisht 
she  had.  I  feel  like  a  little  less  than  nothin'  shot 
full  of  holes  this  lovely  mornin'." 

Collie  rode  on  silently. 

"Why  don't  you  say  somethin'?"  queried 
Williams. 

"I  was  waiting  for  the  rest  of  it,"  said  Collie. 

Williams  laughed.  "I  guess  you  ain't  such  a 
fool,  at  that,  with  your  nussin'  stock  and  settin' 

175 


Overland  Red 

up  nights  with  'em.  Miss  Louise  says  to  tell  you 
to  come  right  up  to  the  house,  —  the  house,  you 
understand,  —  and  get  your  breakfast  with  them. 
They  said  they  was  goin'  to  wait  for  you.  I  guess 
that  ain't  throwin'  it  into  the  rest  of  us  some. 
Keep  it  up,  Collie  kid,  keep  it  up,  and  you'll  be 
pay  in'  us  all  wages  some  day.*' 


CHAPTER  XVII 

GUESTS 

A  MONTH  had  passed  since  the  rescue  of  the 
blunder  colt.  The  air  was  warm  and  clear, 
the  sky  intensely  blue.  Moonstone  Canon  grew 
fragrant  with  budding  flowers.  The  little  lizards 
came  from  their  winter  crevices  and  clung  to  the 
sun-warmed  stones.  A  covey  of  young  quail  flut 
tered  along  the  hillside  under  the  stately  sur 
veillance  of  the  mother  bird.  Wild  cats  prowled 
boldly  on  the  southern  slopes.  Cotton-tails  hud 
dled  beneath  the  greasewood  brush  and  nibbled 
at  the  grasses.  The  canon  stream  ran  clear  again 
now  that  the  storm-washed  silt  had  settled.  On 
the  peaks  the  high  winds  were  cold  and  cutting, 
but  on  the  slopes  and  in  the  valleys  the  earth  was 
moist  and  warm. 

Louise,  humming  a  song,  rode  slowly  along  the 
Moonstone  Canon  Trail.  At  the  "double  turn" 
in  the  canon,  where  dwelt  Echo  and  her  myrmi 
dons,  Louise  rode  more  slowly. 

"Dreaming  Fance,  the  cobbler's  son,  took  his  tools  and 

laces, 

Wrought  her  shoes  of  scarlet  dye,  shoes  as  pale  as  snow. 
They  shall  lead  her  wild-rose  feet  all  the  faery  paces, 
Danced  along  the  road  of  love,  the  road  such  feet  should  go." 

177 


Overland  Red 

She  sang  slowly,  pausing  after  each  line  that 
the  echoes  might  not  blur. 

"Danced  along  .  .  .  along  .  .  .  the  road  ...  of 
love,  the  road  ...  of  love  ...  of  love,"  sang  the 
echoes. 

Louise  smiled  dreamily.  Then  the  clatter  of 
Boyar's  shod  hoofs  rang  and  reechoed,  finally  to 
hush  in  the  gravel  of  the  ford  beyond. 

Why  Louise  thought  of  Collie  just  then,  it 
would  be  difficult  to  imagine.  Still,  she  had,  ever 
since  his  night's  vigil  with  the  blunder  colt, 
caught  herself  noting  little  details  associated 
with  him  and  his  work.  He  brushed  his  teeth. 
Not  all  of  the  other  men  did.  He  did  not  chew 
tobacco.  Despite  his  lack  of  early  training,  he 
was  naturally  neat.  He  disliked  filth  instinc 
tively.  His  bits,  spurs,  and  trappings  shone.  He 
had  learned  to  shoe  his  string  of  ponies  —  an  art 
that  is  fast  becoming  lost  among  present-day 
cowmen.  With  little  comment  but  faithful  zeal 
he  copied  Brand  Williams.  This,  of  course,  flat 
tered  the  taciturn  cowman,  who  unobtrusively 
arranged  Collie's  work  so  that  it  might  bring  the 
younger  man  before  the  notice  of  Walter  Stone, 
and  incidentally  Louise.  Of  course,  Louise  was 
not  aware  of  this. 

The  girl  no  longer  sang  as  she  rode,  but 
dreamed,  with  unseeing  eyes  on  the  trail  ahead  — • 
dreamed  such  dreams  as  one  may  put  aside  easily 

178 


Guests 

until,  perchance,  the  dream  converges  toward 
reality  which  cannot  be  so  lightly  put  aside. 

Brand  Williams  had  his  own  ideas  of  romance; 
ideas  pretty  well  submerged  in  the  deeps  of  hardy 
experience,  but  existing,  nevertheless,  and  as  im 
movable  as  the  bed  of  the  sea.  He  badgered  Col 
lie  whenever  he  chanced  to  have  seen  him  with 
the  Rose  Girl,  and  smiling  inwardly  at  the  young 
man's  indignation,  he  would  straightway  arrange 
that  Collie  should  ride  to  town,  for,  say,  a  few 
pounds  of  staples  wanted  in  a  hurry,  when  he 
knew  that  the  buckboard  would  be  going  to  town 
on  the  morrow,  and  also  that  there  were  plenty  of 
staples  in  the  storeroom. 

Something  of  the  kind  was  afoot,  or  rather  a- 
saddle,  as  Louise  rode  down  the  Moonstone 
Trail,  for  beyond  the  turn  and  the  rippling  ford 
she  saw  a  lithe,  blue-shirted  figure  that  she 
knew. 

Louise  would  not  have  admitted  even  to  her 
self  that  she  urged  Boyar.  Nevertheless  the  reins 
tightened  and  slackened  gently.  Boyar  swung 
into  his  easy  lope.  It  pleased  the  girl  that  Collie, 
turning  in  his  saddle  at  the  sound  of  hoofs,  waved 
a  salute,  but  did  not  check  his  horse.  He  had 
never  presumed  on  her  frank  friendship  and 
"taken  things  for  granted."  He  kept  his  place 
always.  He  was  polite,  a  little  reticent,  and  very 
in  love  with  Louise.  Louise  did  not  pre- 
179 


Overland  Red 

tend  to  herself  that  she  was  not  aware  of  it.  She 
was  all  the  more  pleased  that  Collie  should  act  so 
admirably.  She  had  loaned  him  books,  some  of 
which  he  had  read  faithfully  and  intelligently.  In 
secret  he  had  kissed  her  name  written  on  the  fly 
leaf  of  each  of  them.  He  really  rather  adored 
Louise  than  loved  her,  and  he  builded  well,  for 
his  adoration  (unintimate  as  adoration  must  ever 
be  until  perchance  it  touches  earth  and  is  trans 
lated  into  love)  was  of  that  blithe  and  inspiriting 
quality  that  lifts  a  man  above  his  natural  self  and 
shapes  the  lips  to  song  and  the  heart  to  unselfish 
service.  He  knew  himself  to  be  good-looking  and 
not  altogether  a  barbarian.  No  morbid  hopeless 
ness  clouded  his  broad  horizon.  He  knew  himself 
and  cherished  his  strength  and  his  optimism.  He 
ate  slowly,  which  is  no  insignificant  item  on  the 
credit  side  of  the  big  book  of  Success. 

Collie  lifted  his  broad-brimmed  hat  as  Louise 
rode  up.  His  face  was  flushed.  His  lips  were  smil 
ing,  but  his  dark  eyes  were  steady  and  grave. 

"'Morning,  Collie!  Boyar  is  just  bound  to 
lope.  He  never  can  bear  to  have  a  horse  ahead  of 
him." 

"He  don't  have  to,  very  often,"  said  Collie. 

"Of  course,  there  are  Kentucky  saddle-horses 
that  could  beat  him.  But  they  are  not  cow- 
ponies." 

"No.  And  they  could  n't  beat  him  if  thqy  had 
180 


Guests 

to  do  his  work  in  the  hills.  About  a  week  of  the 
trails  would  kill  a  thoroughbred." 

"Boyar  is  very  conceited,  are  n't  you,  Boy?" 
And  she  patted  the  sleek  arch  of  his  neck. 

"I  don't  blame  him,"  said  Collie,  his  eyes 
twinkling. 

"Going  all  the  way  to  town?"  asked  Louise. 

"Yes.  Brand  wants  some  things  from  the 
store." 

"I'm  going  to  the  station.  We  expect  a  tele 
gram  from  some  friends.  Maybe  they  '11  be  there 
themselves.  I  hope  not,  though.  They  said  they 
were  coming  to-morrow,  but  would  telegraph  if 
they  started  sooner.  We  would  have  to  get 
Price's  team  and  buckboard  —  and  I'd  be 
ashamed  to  ride  behind  his  horses,  especially 
with  my  —  my  friend  from  the  East." 

"Boyar  and  this  here  buckskin  colt  would 
make  a  pretty  fair  team,"  ventured  Collie,  smil 
ing  to  himself. 

"To  drive?  Heavens,  Collie,  no!  They've 
neither  of  them  been  in  harness." 

"I  was  just  imagining,"  said  Collie. 

"Of  course!"  exclaimed  Louise,  laughing.  "I 
understand.  Why,  I  must  be  late.  There's  the 
train  for  the  north  just  leaving  the  station.  I  ex 
pected  to  be  there  in  case  the  Mar  shall  s  did  come 
to-day.  But  they  said  they'd  telegraph." 

"  I  can  see  three  folks  on  the  platform,"  said 
181 


Overland  Red 

Collie.  "One  is  the  agent;  see  his  cap  shine? 
Then  there's  a  man  and  a  woman." 

"  If  it 's  Anne,  she  '11  never  forgive  me.  She 's  so 
—  formal  about  things.  It  can't  be  the  Marshalls5 
though." 

"We  can  ride,"  suggested  Collie.  And  the  two 
ponies  leaped  forward.  A  little  trail  of  dust  fol 
lowed  them  across  the  valley. 

At  the  station  Louise  found  her  guests,  young 
Dr.  Marshall  and  his  wife;  also  the  telegram  an 
nouncing  the  day  they  would  arrive. 

"I'm  sorry,"  began  Louise;  but  the  Marshalls 
silenced  her  with  hearty  "Oh,  pshaws ! "  and  "No 
matters!"  with  an  incidental  hug  from  Anne. 

"Why,  you  have  changed  so,  Anne!"  ex 
claimed  Louise.  "What  have  you  been  doing? 
You  used  to  be  so  terribly  formal,  and  now  you  're 
actually  hugging  me  in  public!" 

"The  'public'  has  just  departed,  Miss  La- 
charme,  with  your  pony,  I  believe.  He  rides  well 
—  the  tall  dark  chap  that  came  with  you." 

"Oh,  Collie.  He's  gone  for  the  buckboard,  of 
course.  Stupid  of  me  not  to  drive  down.  We 
really  did  n't  expect  you  until  to-morrow,  but 
you'll  forgive  us  all,  won't  you?  You  can  see 
now  how  telegrams  are  handled  at  these  sta 
tions." 

Anne  Marshall,  a  brown-eyed,  rather  stately 
and  pleasingly  slender  girl,  smiled  and  shook  her 

182 


Guests 

head.  "I  don't  know.  I  may,  if  you  will  promise 
to  introduce  me  to  that  fascinating  young  cow 
boy  that  rode  away  with  your  horse.  I  used  to 
dream  of  such  men." 

Young  Dr.  Marshall  coughed.  The  girls 
laughed. 

"Oh,  Collie?"  said  Louise.  "Of  course,  you 
will  meet  him.  He's  our  right-hand  man. 
Uncle  Walter  says  he  could  n't  get  along  without 
him  and  Aunty  Eleanor  just  thinks  he  is  perfect," 

"And  Louise?"  queried  Anne  Marshall. 

"Same,"  said  Louise  non-committally.  "I 
don't  see  why  he  took  Boyar  with  him  to  the 
store,  though." 

The  Marshalls  and  Louise  paced  slowly  up  and 
down  the  station  platform,  chatting  about  the 
East  and  Louise's  last  visit  there,  before  Anne 
was  married.  Presently  they  were  interrupted 
by  a  wild  clatter  of  hoofs  and  the  grind  and 
screech  of  a  hastily  applied  brake.  The  borrowed 
buckboard,  strong,  light,  two-seated,  and  built 
for  service,  had  arrived  dramatically.  Collie 
leaned  back,  the  reins  wrapped  round  his  wrists, 
and  his  foot  pressing  the  brake  home.  In  the 
harness  stood,  or  rather  gyrated,  Boyar  and 
Collie's  own  pony  Apache.  It  is  enough  to  say 
that  neither  of  them  had  ever  been  in  harness 
before.  The  ponies  were  trying  to  get  rid  of  the 

183 


Overland  Red 

appended  vehicle  through  any  possible  means. 
Louise  gasped. 

"Price's  team  is  out  —  over  to  the  Oro  Ranch. 
I  knew  you  wanted  a  team  in  a  hurry  — "  said 
Collie. 

"It  looks  quite  like  a  team  in  a  hurry,"  com 
mented  Dr.  Marshall.  "Your  man  is  a  good 
driver?" 

"Splendid!"  said  Louise.  "Come  on,  Anne. 
You  always  said  you  wanted  to  ride  behind  some 
real  Western  horses.  Here  they  are." 

"  Why,  this  is  just  —  just  —  bully ! "  whispered 
the  stately  Anne  Marshall.  "And  is  n't  he  a 
striking  figure?" 

"Yes,"  assented  Louise,  who  was  just  the 
least  bit  uncertain  as  to  the  outcome  of  Collie's 
hasty  assembling  of  untutored  harness  material. 
"It  is  just  'bully.'  Where  in  the  world  did  you 
unearth  that  word,  Anne?" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

A   RED   EPISODE 

DR.  MARSHALL'S  offhand  designation  of 
the  buckboard  as  "a  team  in  a  hurry " 
was  prophetic,  even  unto  the  end. 

What  Boyar  could  not  accomplish  in  the  way 
of  equine  gymnastics  in  harness,  Apache,  Collie's 
pony,  could. 

Louise  was  a  little  fearful  for  her  guests,  yet  she 
had  confidence  in  the  driver.  The  Marshalls  ap 
parently  saw  nothing  more  than  a  pair  of  very 
spirited  "real  Western  horses  like  one  reads 
about,  you  know,"  until  Dr.  Marshall,  slowly 
coming  out  of  a  kind  of  anticipatory  haze,  as 
Boyar  stood  on  his  hind  feet  and  tried  to  face  the 
buckboard,  recognized  the  black  horse  as  Louise's 
saddle  animal.  He  took  a  firmer  grip  on  the  seat 
and  looked  at  Collie.  The  young  man  seemed  to 
be  enjoying  himself.  There  was  n't  a  line  of 
worry  on  his  clean-cut  face. 

"Pretty  lively,"  said  the  doctor. 

Collie,  with  his  foot  on  the  brake  and  both 
arms  rigid,  nodded.  Moonstone  Canon  Trail  was 
not  a  boulevard.  He  was  not  to  be  lured  into 

185 


Overland  Red 

conversation.  He  was  giving  his  whole  mind  and 
all  of  his  magnetism  to  the  team. 

Boyar  and  Apache  took  advantage  of  every 
turn,  pitch,  steep  descent,  and  ford  to  display 
the  demoniacal  ingenuity  inspired  by  their  out 
raged  feelings.  They  were  splendid,  obedient 
saddle-animals.  But  to  be  buckled  and  strapped 
in  irritating  harness,  and  hitched  to  that  four- 
wheeled  disgrace,  a  buckboard!  .  .  . 

Anne  Marshall  chatted  happily  with  Louise, 
punctuating  her  lively  chatter  with  subdued  lit 
tle  cries  of  delight  as  some  new  turn  in  the  trail 
opened  on  a  vista  unimaginably  beautiful,  espe 
cially  to  her  Eastern  eyes. 

Young  Dr.  Marshall,  in  the  front  seat  with 
Collie,  braced  his  feet  and  smiled.  He  had  had 
experience,  in  an  East-Side  ambulance,  but  then 
that  had  been  over  level  streets.  He  glanced  over 
the  edge  of  the  canon  road  and  his  smile  faded  a 
little.  It  faded  entirely  as  the  front  wheel 
sheared  off  a  generous  shovelful  of  eajjth  from  a 
sharp  upright  angle  of  the  hill  as  the  team  took 
the  turn  at  a  gallop.  The  young  physician  had  a 
sense  of  humor,  which  is  the  next  best  thing  to 
courage,  although  he  had  plenty  of  his  kind  of 
courage  also.  He  brushed  the  earth  from  his 
lap. 

"The  road  needs  widening  there,  anyway/5 
commented  Collie,  as  though  apologizing. 

186 


A  Red  Episode 

"I  have  my — er  —  repair  kit  with  me,"  said 
the  genial  doctor.  "I'm  a  surgeon." 

Collie  nodded,  but  kept  his  eyes  rigidly  on  the 
horses.  Evidently  this  immaculate,  of  the  white 
collar  and  cuffs  and  the  stylish  gray  tweeds,  had 
"sand." 

"They're  a  little  fussy —  but  I  know  'em," 
said  Collie,  as  Boyar,  apparently  terror-stricken 
at  a  manzanita  that  he  had  passed  hundreds  of 
times,  reared,  his  fore  feet  pawing  space  and  the 
traces  dangerously  slack.  Louise  bit  her  lower 
lip  and  quickly  called  Anne's  attention  to  a  spot 
of  vivid  color  on  the  hillside.  To  Dr.  Marshall's 
surprise,  Collie  struck  Apache,  who  was  behav 
ing,  smartly  with  the  whip.  Apache  leaped  for 
ward,  bringing  Boyar  down  to  his  feet  again. 
The  doctor  would  have  been  inclined  to  strike 
Boyar  for  misbehaving.  He  saw  Collie's  wis 
dom  and  smiled.  To  have  punished  Boyar 
when  already  on  his  hind  feet  would  have  been 
folly. 

At  the  top  of  the  next  grade  the  lathering, 
restive  ponies  finally  settled  to  a  stubborn  trot. 
"Mad  clean  through,"  said  Collie. 

"  I  should  say  they  were  behaving  well  enough," 
said  the  doctor,  not  as  much  as  an  opinion  as  to 
relieve  his  tense  nerves  in  speech. 

"When  a  bronc'  gets  to  acting  ladylike,  then 
is  the  time  to  look  out,"  said  Collie.  "Boyar  and 

187 


Overland  Red 

Apache   have   never   been    in   harness   before. 
Seems  kind  of  queer  to  'em." 

"What!  Never  been  — Why!  Huh!  For 
Heaven's  sake,  don't  let  Mrs.  Marshall  hear 
that." 

Walter  Stone  and  his  wife  made  the  Marshalls 
feel  at  home  immediately.  Walter  Stone  had 
known  Dr.  Marshall's  father,  and  he  found  in  the 
son  a  pleasant  living  recollection  of  his  old  friend. 
Aunt  Eleanor  and  Louise  had  visited  with  Anne 
when  they  were  East.  She  was  Anne  Winthrop 
then,  and  Louise  and  she  had  found  much  in  com 
mon  to  enjoy  in  shopping  and  sightseeing.  Their 
one  regret  was  that  Louise  would  have  to  return 
to  the  West  before  her  marriage  to  the  young  Dr. 
Marshall  they  all  admired  so  much.  There  had 
been  vague  promises  of  coming  West  after 
"things  were  settled,"  as  Anne  put  it.  Which 
was  merely  another  way  of  saying,  "After  we  are 
married  and  have  become  enough  used  to  each 
other  to  really  enjoy  a  long  trip  West." 

The  Marshalls  had  arrived  with  three  years 
of  happiness  behind  them,  and  apparently  with 
an  aeon  or  so  of  happiness  to  look  forward  to,  for 
they  were  quiet,  unassuming  young  folks,  with 
plenty  of  money  and  no  desire  whatever  to  make 
people  aware  of  it. 

The  host  brought  cigars  and  an  extra  steamer- 
188 


A  Red  Episode 

chair  to  the  wide  veranda.  "It's  much  cooler 
out  here.  We'll  smoke  while  the  girls  tell  each 
other  all  about  it." 

"I  should  like  to  sit  on  something  solid  for  a 
few  minutes,"  said  the  doctor.  "It  was  a  most 
amazing  drive." 

"We're  pretty  well  used  to  the  canon,"  said 
Stone.  "Yet  I  can  see  how  it  would  strike  an 
Easterner." 

"Indeed  it  did,  Mr.  Stone.  There  is  a  thrill 
in  every  turn  of  it,  for  me.  I  shall  dream  of 
it." 

"Were  you  delayed  at  the  station?"  queried 
Stone. 

"We  wired,"  said  the  doctor.  "It  seems  that 
the  telegram  was  not  delivered.  Miss  Lacharme 
explained  that  messages  have  to  wait  until 
called  for,  unless  money  is  wired  for  delivering 
them." 

"That  is  a  fact,  Doctor.  Splendid  system, 
is  n't  it?" 

"I  am  really  sorry  that  we  put  Miss  Lacharme 
to  so  much  trouble.  She  had  to  scare  up  a  team 
on  the  instant." 

"  Price,  the  storekeeper,  brought  you  up,  did  n't 
he?" 

"I  don't  think  so.  Miss  Louise  called  him  '  Col 
lie,'  I  believe.  He'd  make  a  splendid  army 
surgeon,  that  young  man!  He  has  nerves  like 

189 


Overland  Red 

tempered  steel  wire,  and  I  never  saw  such  cool 
strength." 

"Oh,  that's  nothing.  Any  one  could  drive 
Price's  horses." 

The  doctor  smiled.  "The  young  man  confided 
to  me  that  their  names  were  'Boyar'  and 
'Apache,'  I  believe.  They  both  lived  up  to  the 
last  one's  name." 

"Well,  I'll  be  —  Here,  have  a  fresh  cigar!  I 
want  to  smoke  on  that.  Hu-m-m!  Did  that 
young  pirate  drive  those  saddle-animals  —  drive 
'em  from  the  station  to  this  rancho  —  Whew !  I 
congratulate  you,  Doctor.  You  '11  never  be  killed 
in  a  runaway.  He's  a  good  horseman,  but  — 
Well,  I '11  talk  to  him." 

"Pardon  me  if  I  ask  you  not  to,  Stone.  The 
girls  enjoyed  it  immensely.  So  did  I.  I  be 
lieve  the  driver  did.  He  never  once  lost  his 
smile." 

"Collie  is  usually  pretty  level-headed,"  said 
Walter  Stone.  "He  must  have  been  put  to  it  for 
horses.  Price's  team  must  have  been  out." 

"He's  more  than  level-headed,"  asserted 
Dr.  Marshall.  "He's  magnetic.  I  could  feel  con 
fidence  radiating  from  him  like  sunshine  from 
a  brick  wall." 

"I  think  he'll  amount  to  something,  myself. 
Everything  he  tackles  he  tackles  earnestly.  He 
does  n't  leave  loose  ends  to  be  picked  up  by  some 

190 


A  Red  Episode 

one  else  later.  I  Ve  had  a  reason  to  watch  him 
specially.  Three  years  ago  he  was  tramping  it 
with  a  'pal.'  A  boy  tramp.  Now  see  what  he's 
grown  to  be." 

"A  tramp!    No!" 

"  Fact.  He 's  done  pretty  well  for  himself  since 
he's  been  with  us.  He  had  a  hard  time  of  it  be 
fore  that." 

"I  served  my  apprenticeship  in  the  slums," 
said  Dr.  Marshall.  "East-Side  hospital.  I  think 
that  I  can  also  appreciate  what  you  have  done 
for  him." 

"Thank  you,  Doctor, — but  the  credit  be 
longs  with  the  boy.  Hello!  Here  are  our  girls 
again."  And  Walter  Stone  and  the  doctor  rose 
on  the  instant. 

"I  think  I  shall  call  you  Uncle  Walter,"  said 
Anne  Marshall,  who  had  not  met  Walter  Stone 
until  then. 

"I'm  unworthy,"  said  the  rancher,  his  eyes 
twinkling.  "And  I  don't  want  to  be  relegated  to 
the  'uncle'  class  so  soon." 

"  Thanks  awfully,"  said  Louise. 

"Jealous,  mouse?" 

"Indeed,  no.  I'm  not  Mrs.  Marshall's  hus 
band." 

"I  have  already  congratulated  the  doctor," 
said  Walter  Stone,  bowing. 

"Doctor,"  said  Anne,  in  her  most  formal 
191 


Overland  Red 

manner.    "You're  antique.   Why  don't  you  say 
something  bright?" 

"I  do,  every  time  I  call  you  Anne.  I  really 
must  go  in  and  brush  up  a  bit,  as  you  suggest. 
You'll  excuse  me,  I'm  sure." 

"Yes,  indeed,  —  almost  with  pleasure.  And, 
Doctor,  don't  wear  your  fountain-pen  in  your 
white  vest  pocket.  You're  not  on  duty,  now." 

In  the  shadows  of  the  mountain  evening  they 
congregated  on  the  veranda  and  chatted  about 
the  East,  the  West,  and  incidentally  about  the 
proposed  picnic  they  were  to  enjoy  a  few  days 
later,  when  "boots  and  saddles"  would  be  the 
order  of  the  day.  "And  the  trails  are  not  bad, 
Anne,"  said  Louise.  "When  you  get  used  to 
them,  you'll  forget  all  about  them,  but  your 
pony  won't.  He'll  be  just  as  deliberate  and 
anxious  about  your  safety,  and  his,  at  the  end  of 
the  week  as  he  was  at  the  beginning." 

"Imagine!  A  week  of  riding  about  these 
mountains!  How  Billy  would  have  enjoyed  it, 
Doctor." 

"Yes.  But  I  believe  he  is  having  a  pretty  good 
time  where  he  is." 

"We  wish  he  could  be  here,  Anne,"  said  Lou 
ise.  "  I  've  never  met  your  brother.  He 's  always 
been  away  when  I  have  been  East." 

"Which  has  been  his  misfortune,"  said  Dr., 
Marshall. 

192 


A  Red  Episode 

"He  writes  such  beautiful  letters  about  the 
desert  and  his  mining  claim,  —  that's  his  latest 
fad,  —  and  says  he 's  much  stronger.  But  I  be 
lieve  they  all  say  that  —  when  they  have  his 
trouble,  you  know." 

"From  Billy's  last  letter,  I  should  say  he  was 
in  pretty  fair  shape,"  said  the  doctor.  "  He 's  liv 
ing  outdoors  and  at  a  good  altitude,  somewhere 
on  the  desert.  He 's  making  money.  He  posts  his 
letters  at  a  town  called  'Dagget,'  in  this  State." 

"Up  above  San  Berdoo,"  said  Walter  Stone. 
And  he  straightway  drifted  into  reverie,  gazing 
at  the  bright  end  of  his  cigar  until  it  faded  in  the 
darkness. 

"Hello!"  exclaimed  Dr.  Marshall,  leaning 
forward.  "Sounds  like  the  exhaust  of  a  pretty 
heavy  car.  I  did  n't  imagine  any  one  would  drive 
that  canon  road  after  dark." 

"Unusual,"  said  Stone,  getting  to  his  feet. 
"  Some  one  in  a  hurry.  I  '11  turn  on  the  porch-light 
and  defy  the  mosquitoes." 

With  a  leonine  roar  and  a  succeeding  clatter  of 
empty  cylinders,  an  immense  racing-car  stopped 
at  the  gate  below.  The  powerful  headlight  shot 
a  widening  pathway  through  the  night.  Voices 
came  indistinctly  from  the  vicinity  of  the  ma 
chine.  Before  Walter  Stone  had  reached  the  bot 
tom  step  of  the  porch,  a  huge  figure  appeared 
from  out  the  shadows.  In  the  radiance  of  the 

193 


Overland  Red 

porch-light  stood  a  wonderfully  attired  stranger* 
Frock  coat,  silk  hat,  patent  leathers,  striped  trou 
sers,  and  pearl  gaiters,  a  white  vest,  and  a  notice 
able  watch-chain  adorned  the  driver  of  the  auto 
mobile.  He  stood  for  a  minute,  blinking  in  the 
light.  Then  he  swept  his  hat  from  his  head  with 
muscular  grace.  "Excuse  me  for  intrudin','* 
he  said.  "I  seen  this  glim  and  headed  for  it.  Is 
Mr.  Walter  Stone  at  lee-sure?" 

"I'm  Walter  Stone,"  said  the  rancher,  some 
what  mystified. 

"My  name's  Summers,  Jack  Summers,  pro 
prietor  of  the  Rose  Girl  Mine."  And  Overland 
Red,  erstwhile  sheriff  of  Abilene,  cowboy,  tramp, 
prospector,  gunman,  and  many  other  interesting 
things,  proffered  a  highly  engraved  calling-card. 
Again  he  bowed  profoundly,  his  hat  in  his  hand, 
a  white  carnation  in  his  bottonhole  and  rapture 
in  his  heart.  He  had  seen  Louise  again  —  Louise, 
leaning  forward,  staring  at  him  incredulously. 
Would  n't  the  Rose  Girl  be  surprised?  She  was. 

"I  can't  say  that  I  quite  understand  — "  be 
gan  Stone. 

"Why,  it's  the  man  who  borrowed  my  pony!  '* 
exclaimed  Louise. 

"  Correct,  Miss.  I  —  I  come  to  thank  you  for 
lendin'  me  the  cayuse  that  time." 

Walter  Stone  simply  had  to  laugh.  "Come  up 
and  rest  after  your  trip  up  the  canon.  Of  course, 

194 


A  Red  Episode 

you  want  to  see  Collie.  He  told  me  about  your 
finding  the  claim.  Says  you  have  given  him  a 
quarter-interest.  I'm  glad  you're  doing  well." 

"I  took  a  little  run  in  to  Los  to  get  some  new 
tires.  The  desert  eats  'em  up  pretty  fast.  The 
Guzzuh,  she  cast  her  off  hind  shoe  the  other  day. 
I  was  scared  she'd  go  lame.  Bein'  up  this  way, 
I  thought  I'd  roll  up  and  see  Collie." 

"The  'Guzzuh'?"  queried  Stone.  "You  rode 
up,  then?" 

"Nope.  The  Guzzuh  is  me  little  old  racin'- 
car.  I  christened  her  that  right  after  I  got  so  as 
I  could  climb  on  to  her  without  her  pitchin'  me 
off.  She's  some  bronc'  she  is." 

Overland  Red,  despite  his  outward  regenera 
tion,  was  Overland  Red  still,  only  a  little  more  so. 
His  overwhelming  apparel  accentuated  his  peculi 
arities,  his  humorous  gestures,  his  silent  self -con 
sciousness.  But  there  was  something  big,  force 
ful,  and  wholesouled  about  the  man,  something 
that  attracted  despite  his  incongruities. 

Anne  Marshall  was  at  once  —  as  she  told 
Louise  later  —  "desperately  interested."  Dr. 
Marshall  saw  in  Overland  a  new  and  exceedingly 
virile  type.  Even  gentle  Aunt  Eleanor  received 
the  irrepressible  with  unmistakable  welcome. 
She  had  heard  much  of  his  history  from  Collie. 
Overland  was  as  irresistible  as  the  morning  sun. 
While  endeavoring  earnestly  to  "do  the  genteel," 

195 


Overland  Red 

as  he  had  assured  Winthrop  he  would  when  he 
left  him  to  make  this  visit,  Overland  had  literally 
taken  them  by  storm. 

Young  Dr.  Marshall  studied  him,  racking  his 
memory  for  a  name.  Presently  he  turned  to  his 
wife.  "What  was  Billy's  partner's  name  —  the 
miner?  I've  forgotten." 

"A  Mr.  Summers,  I  believe.  Yes,  I'm  sure. 
Jack  Summers,  Billy  called  him  in  his  letters." 

"Just  a  minute,"  said  the  doctor,  turning  to 
Overland,  who  sat,  huge-limbed,  smiling,  red- 
visaged,  happy.  "Pardon  me.  You  said  Mr. 
Jack  Summers,  I  believe?  Do  you  happen  to 
know  a  Mr.  Winthrop,  Billy  Winthrop?" 

"Me?  What,  Billy?  Billy  Winthrop?  Say, 
is  this  me?  I  inhaled  a  whole  lot  of  gasoline 
comin'  up  that  grade,  but  I  ain't  feelin'  dizzy. 
Billy  Winthrop?  Why  —  "  And  his  exclamation 
subsided  as  he  asked  cautiously,  "Did  you  know 
him?" 

"I  am  his  sister,"  said  Anne  Marshall. 

Overland  was  dumbfounded.  "His  sister," 
lie  muttered.  "The  one  he  writ  to  in  New  York. 
Huh!  Yes,  me  and  Billy's  pardners." 

"Is  he  —  is  he  better?"  asked  Anne  hesitat 
ingly. 

"Better!  Say,  lady,  excuse  me  if  I  tell  you 
he's  gettin'  so  blame  frisky  that  he's  got  me 
scared.  Why,  I  left  him  settin'  on  a  rock  eatin' 

196 


A  Red  Episode 

a  sardine  san'wich  with  one  hand  and  shootin' 
holes  in  all  the  tin  cans  in  sight  with  the  other. 
'So  long,  Red!'  he  hollers  as  I  lit  out  with  the 
burro  to  cross  the  range.  'So  long,  and  don't  let 
your  feet  slip.'  And  Pom!  goes  the  .45  that  he 
was  jugglin'  and  another  tin  can  passed  over. 
He  takes  a  bite  from  the  san'wich  and  then,  Pom! 
goes  the  gun  again  and  another  tin  can  bites  the 
dust,  jest  as  free  and  easy  as  if  he  was  n't  keepin* 
guard  over  thirty  or  forty  thousand  dollars'  worth 
of  gold-dust  and  trouble,  and  jest  as  if  he  ain't  got 
no  lungs  at  all." 

"Billy  must  have  changed  a  little,"  ventured 
Dr.  Marshall,  smiling. 

"Changed?  Excuse  me,  ladies.  But  when  I 
first  turned  my  lamps  on  him  in  Los,  I  says  to 
myself  if  there  was  n't  a  fella  with  one  foot  in  the 
grave  and  the  other  on  a  banana-peel,  I  was  mis 
took.  And  listen!  He  come  out  to  the  Mojave 
with  me.  He  jest  almost  cried  to  come.  I  was 
scared  it  was  vi'lets  and  'Gather  at  the  River,' 
without  the  melodeum,  for  him.  But  you  never 
see  a  fella  get  such  a  chest !  Search  me  if  I  knows 
where  he  got  it  from,  for  he  was  n't  much  bigger 
around  in  the  works  than  a  mosquito  when  I 
took  him  up  there.  And  eat!  My  Gosh,  he  can 
eat!  And  a  complexion  like  a  Yaqui.  And  he 
can  sleep  longer  and  harder  and  louder  than  a 
corral  of  gradin'  mules  on  Saturday  night! 

197 


Overland  Red 

'Course  he's  slim  yet,  but  it's  the  kind  of  slim 
like  rawhide  that  you  could  hobble  a  elephant 
with.  And,  say,  he's  a  pardner  on  your  life? 
Believe  me,  and  I'm  listenin'  to  myself,  too." 

"His  lungs  are  better,  then?" 

"Lungs?  He  ain't  got  none.  They 're  belluses 
—  prime  California  skirtin'  leather  off  the  back. 
Lady,  that  kid  is  a  wonder." 

"I 'm  awfully  glad  Billy  is  better.  He  must  be, 
judging  from  what  you  tell  me." 

66 1  wisht  I'd  'a'  had  him  runnin'  the  'Guzzuh ' 
instead  of  that  little  chicken-breasted  chaffer 
they  three-shelled  on  to  me  in  Los  Angeles.  I  hired 
him  because  they  said  I  'd  better  take  him  along 
until  I  was  some  better  acquainted  with  the  ma 
chine.  The  Guzzuh  ain't  no  ordinary  bronc'." 

"The  'Guzzuh'?"  queried  Dr.  Marshall. 

"Uhuh.  That's  what  I  christened  her.  She's 
a  racer.  She's  sixty  hoss-power,  and  sometimes 
I  reckon  I  could  handle  sixty  bosses  easier  to  once 
than  I  could  her.  We  was  lopin'  along  out  in  the 
desert,  'bout  fifty  miles  an  hour  by  the  leetle 
clock  on  the  dashboard,  when  all  of  a  sudden  she 
lays  back  her  ears  and  she  bucks.  I  leans  back 
and  keeps  her  head  up,  but  it  ain't  no  use.  She 
gives  a  jump  or  two  and  says  '  Guzzuh! '  jest  like 
that,  and  quits.  I  climbs  out  and  looked  her 
over.  She  sure  was  balky.  I  was  glad  she  said 
somethin9,  if  it  was  only  'Guzzuh,'  instead  of 

198 


A  Red  Episode 

quittin'  on  me  silent  and  scornfuL  Sounded  like 
she  was  apologizin'  for  stoppin'  up  like  that.  I 
felt  of  her  chest  and  she  was  pretty  much  het  up. 
When  she  cooled  off,  I  started  her  easy  —  sort 
of  grazin'  along  pretendin'  we  was  n't  goin'  to 
lope  again.  When  she  got  her  second  wind  I  give 
her  her  head,  and  she  let  out  and  loped  clean  into 
the  desert  town,  without  makin'  a  stumble  or 
castin'  a  shoe.  Paid  three  thousand  for  her  in 
Los.  She  is  guaranteed  to  do  eighty  miles  on  the 
level,  and  she  does  a  whole  lot  of  other  things 
that  ain't  jest  on  the  level.  She'd  climb  a  back 
fence  if  you  spoke  right  to  her.  A  sand-storm 
ain't  got  nothin'  on  her  when  she  gets  her  back 
up." 

4 'Your  car  must  be  unique,"  suggested  Walter 
Stone. 

"Nope.  She  ain't  a  ( Yew-neck.'  I  forget  her 
brand.  I  ain't  had  her  very  long.  But  I  can  run 
her  now  better  than  that  little  two-dollar-and-a- 
half  excuse  they  lent  me  in  Los.  He  loses  his 
nerve  comin'  up  the  canon  there.  You  see  the 
Guzzuh  got  to  friskin'  round  the  turns  on  her 
hind  feet.  So  I  gives  him  a  box  of  candy  to  keep 
him  quiet  and  takes  the  reins  myself.  I  got  my 
foot  in  the  wrong  stirrup  on  the  start  —  was 
chokin'  off  her  wind  instead  of  feedin'  her. 
Then  I  got  my  foot  on  the  giddap-dingus  and  we 
come.  The  speed-clock's  limit  is  ninety  miles  an 

199 


Overland  Red 

hour  and  we  busted  the  speed  clock  comin'  down 
that  last  grade.  But  we're  here." 

Dr.  Marshall  and  Walter  Stone  gazed  at  each 
other.  They  laughed.  Overland  smiled  conde 
scendingly.  Anne  Marshall  had  recourse  to  her 
handkerchief,  but  Louise  did  not  smile. 

"Does  Billy  ever  drive  your  car?"  asked  Anne 
Marshall  presently. 

"He  drives  her  in  the  desert  and  in  the  hills 
some.  He  drove  her  into  a  sand-hill  once  clean 
up  to  her  withers.  When  he  came  back,  —  he 
kind  of  went  ahead  a  spell  to  look  over  the 
ground,  so  he  says,  —  he  apologizes  to  her  like 
a  gent.  Oh,  he  likes  her  more  'n  I  do.  Bruck  two 
searchlights  at  one  hundred  dollars  a  glim,  but 
that's  nothin'.  Oh,  yes,  Billy's  got  good  nerve." 

Overland  shifted  his  foot  to  his  other  knee  and 
leaned  back  luxuriously,  puffing  fluently  at  his 
cigar. 

"Billy  did  get  to  feelin'  kind  of  down,  a  spell 
back.  He  had  a  argument  with  a  Gophertown 
gent  about  our  claim.  I  was  n't  there  at  the  time, 
but  when  I  come  back,  I  tied  up  Billy's  leg  — " 

"Goodness!     His  leg?"  exclaimed  Anne. 

"Yes,  ma'am.  The  Gophertown  gent  snuck 
up  and  tried  to  stick  Billy  up  when  Billy  was 
readin'  po'try  —  some  of  mine.  Billy  did  n't 
scare  so  easy.  He  reaches  for  his  gun.  Anyhow, 
the  Gophertown  gent's  bullet  hit  a  rock,  and 

200 


A  Red  Episode 

shied  up  and  stung  Billy  in  the  leg.  Billy  never 
misses  a  tin  can  now 'days,  and  the  gent  was  bigger 
than  a  can.  We  never  seen  nothin'  of  him  again." 

" Gracious,  it's  perfectly  awful!"  cried  Anne. 

"Yes,  lady.  That's  what  Billy  said.  He  said 
he  did  n't  object  to  gettin'  shot  at,  but  he  did 
object  to  gettin'  hit,  especially  when  he  was 
readin'  po'try.  Said  it  kind  of  bruck  his  strand 
of  thought.  That  guy  was  no  gent." 

Walter  Stone  again  glanced  at  Dr.  Marshall. 
Aunt  Eleanor  rose,  bidding  the  men  good-night. 
Louise  and  Mrs.  Marshall  followed  somewhat 
reluctantly.  Stone  disappeared  to  return  with 
cigars,  whiskey  and  seltzer,  which  he  placed  at 
Overland's  elbow.  "My  friend  Dr.  Marshall  is 
an  Easterner,"  he  said. 

Overland  waved  a  comprehending  hand,  lit 
another  cigar,  and  settled  back.  "Now  I  can 
take  the  hobbles  off  and  talk  nacheral.  When 
you  gents  want  me  to  stop,  just  say  'Guzzuh/  " 


CHAPTER  XIX 

"TO    CUT    MY   TRAIL   LIKE   THAT!" 

OVERLAND  RED  was  concluding  his  last 
yarn,   a  most  amazing  account  of  "The 
night  the  Plancher  boys  shot  up  Abilene." 

It  was  exactly  two  o'clock  by  Dr.  Marshall's 
watch. 

"Both  my  guns  was  choked  up  with  burnt 
powder.  I  reached  down  and  borrowed  two  guns 
off  a  gent  what  was  n't  usin'  his  jest  then.  Next 
day  I  was  elected  sheriff  unanimous.  They  was 
seven  of  us  left  standin'.  That  was  back  in  '98." 
Overland  yawned  and  stood  up. 

"The  boys  are  all  asleep  now,"  said  Walter 
Stone.  "We  have  plenty  of  room  here.  You'll 
not  object  to  taking  one  of  the  guest-rooms  as 
you  find  it,  I'm  sure." 

"For  better  or  for  worse,  as  the  pote  says." 
And  Overland  grinned.  "But  I  got  to  put  that 
little  chaffer  to  roost  somewhere." 

"That's  so." 

"I'll  go  wake  him  up."  And  Overland  strode 
to  the  racing-car.  The  "chaffer"  had  departed 
for  parts  unknown. 

202 


To  Cut  My  Trail  Like  That 

"I  guess  he  was  scared  at  that  last  grade,"  said 
Overland,  returning  to  the  house.  "He's  gone. 
He  must  'a'  been  scared,  to  beat  it  back  down  the 
road  afoot." 

"Perhaps  he  has  gone  to  the  stables,"  said 
Stone.  "Well,  we'll  take  care  of  you  here.  You 
can  see  Collie  in  the  morning." 

Overland,  closing  the  door  of  the  spacious,  cool 
guest-room,  glanced  about  curiously.  What  was 
it  made  the  place  seem  so  different  from  even  the 
most  expensive  hotel  suites?  The  furniture  was 
very  plain.  The  decorations  were  soft-toned  and 
simple.  "It's  —  it's  because  the  Rose  Girl  lives 
here,  I  guess,"  he  soliloquized.  "Now  this  kind 
of  a  roost  would  jest  suit  Billy,  but  it  makes  me 
feel  like  walkin'  on  eggs.  This  here  grazin'  is  too 
^ood  for  me." 

He  undressed  slowly,  folding  his  unaccustomed 
garments  with  great  care.  He  placed  his  auto 
matic  pistol  on  the  chair  by  the  bed.  Then  he 
crept  beneath  the  sheets,  forgetting  to  turn  out 
the  light.  "Huh!  Gettin'  absent-minded  like 
the  old  perfessor  what  picked  up  a  hairbrush  in 
stead  of  a  lookin'-glass  to  see  if  he  needed  shavin', 
He  was  dum'  near  scared  to  death  to  see  how  his 
beard  was  growin'."  And  Overland  chuckled  as 
he  turned  out  the  lights. 

He  could  not  go  to  sleep  at  once.  He  missed  the 
desert  night  —  the  spaces  and  the  stars.  "I  left 

203 


Overland  Red 

here  in  a  hurry  once,"  he  muttered.  "'Bout 
three  years  ago.  Then  I  was  kiddin'  Collie  about 
wearin'  silk  pejammies.  Now  I  got  'em  —  got 
'em  on,  by  thunder!  Don't  know  as  I  feel  any 
heftier  in  the  intellec'.  And  I  can't  show  'em  to 
nobody.  What's  the  good  of  havin'  'em  if  no 
body  knows  it?  But  I  can  hang  'em  on  the  bed 
post  in  the  mornin',  careless  like,  jest  like  I  was 
raised  to  it.  Them  pejammies  cost  four  dol 
lars  a  leg.  Some  class  ..."  And;  he  drifted 
to  sleep. 

After  breakfast  Dr.  Marshall,  who  had  taken  a 
fancy  to  Overland,  strolled  with  him  over  to  the 
bunk-house.  Most  of  the  men  were  on  the  range. 
Collie  was  assembling  bits  and  bridles,  saddles, 
cinchas,  and  spurs,  to  complete  an  equipment  for 
the  proposed  camping  trip  in  the  hills.  He  was 
astounded  at  Overland 's  appearance.  However, 
he  had  absorbed  Western  ideals  rapidly.  He  was 
sincerely  glad,  overjoyed,  to  see  his  old  friend, 
but  he  showed  little  of  it  in  voice  and  manner. 
He  shook  hands  with  a  brief,  "How,  Red!"  and 
went  on  with  his  work. 

Dr.  Marshall,  after  expressing  interest  in  the 
equipment,  excused  himself  and  wandered  over 
to  the  corrals,  where  he  admired  the  horses. 

"Where  did  you  get  'em?"  queried  Collie, 
adjusting  the  length  of  a  pair  of  stirrup-leathers. 

"These?"  And  Overland  spread  his  coat-tails 
204 


To  Cut  My  Trail  Like  That 

and  ruffled.  "Why,  out  of  the  old  Mo jave.  Dug 
'em  up  with  a  little  pick  and  shovel." 

"You  said  in  your  letter  you  found  the 
claim." 

"Uhuh.  Almost  fell  over  it  before  I  did, 
though.  We  never  found  the  other  things,  by  the 
track.  New  ties.  No  mark.  Say,  that  Billy 
Winthrop  I  writ  about  is  the  brother  of  them 
folks  stayin'  here!  What  do  you  think!" 

"Wish  I  was  out  there  with  you  fellows,"  said 
Collie. 

"  You  're  doin'  pretty  good  right  here,  kiddo. 
The  boss  don't  think  you're  the  worst  that 
ever  came  acrost,  and  I  expect  the  ladies  can 
put  up  with  havin?  you  on  the  same  ranch  by 
the  way  they  talk.  Got  a  hoss  of  your  own 
yet?" 

"Nope.  I  got  my  eye  on  one,  though.  Say, 
Red,  this  is  the  best  place  to  work.  The  boss  is 
fine.  I  'm  getting  forty  a  month  now,  and  savin' 
it.  The  boys  are  all  right,  too.  Brand  Williams, 
the  foreman  - 

"Brand  who?" 

"Williams.     He  came  from  Wyoming." 

"Well,  this  here's  gettin'  like  a  story  and  not 
like  real  livin'.  Why,  I  knowed  old  Brand  in  Mex. 
in  the  old  days  when  a  hoss  and  a  gun  was  about 
all  a  guy  needed  to  set  up  housekeepin'.  We  was 
pals.  So  he's  foreman  here,  eh?  Well,  you  follow 

205 


Overland  Red 

his  trail  close  about  cattle  or  bosses  and  you'll 
win  out." 

"I  been  doing  that,"  said  Collie.  "The  other 
day  he  told  me  to  keep  my  eye  on  one  of  the  boys. 
Silent  Saunders,  he's  called.  Kind  of  funny.  I 
don't  know  anything  about  Saunders." 

"Well,  you  bank  on  it.  Stack  'em  up  chin-high 
on  it,  Collie,  if  Brand  says  that.  He  knows  some- 
thin'  or  he  would  never  talk.  Brand  is  a  particu 
lar  friend  of  yours?" 

"You  bet!" 

"Well,  tie  to  him.  What  he  says  is  better  than 
fine  gold  as  the  pote  says.  I  reckon  coarse  gold 
suits  me  better,  outside  of  po'try.  How  does  the 
Saunders  insec'  wear  his  clothes?" 

"He's  kind  of  lame  in  one  arm  and  —  here  he 
comes  now.  You  can  see  for  yourself.  The  one 
on  that  pinto." 

As  Saunders  rode  past  the  two  men,  he  turned 
in  his  saddle.  Despite  Overland's  finery  he  recog 
nized  him  at  once. 

Overland's  gaze  never  left  the  other's  hands. 
"Mornin',"  said  Overland,  nodding.  "Ain't  you 
grazin'  pretty  far  this  side  of  Gophertown?" 

"Who  the  hell  are  you  talkin'  to?"  Saunders 
asked  venomously,  and  his  eyes  narrowed. 

Overland  grinned,  and  carelessly  shifted  the 
lapel  of  his  coat  from  beneath  which  peeped  the 
butt  of  his  automatic  pistol.  Collie  felt  his  scalp 

206 


To  Cut  My  Trail  Like  That 

tightening.   There  was  something  tense  and 
gestive  in  the  air. 

"I'm  talkin'  to  a  fella  that  ought  to  know  bet 
ter  than  to  get  sassy  to  me,"  said  Overland,  "or 
to  cut  my  trail  like  that." 

Saunders  rode  on. 

"Seen  him  before?"  asked  Collie. 

''Yep.  Twice  —  over  the  end  of  a  gun.  He 
come  visitin'  me  and  Billy  at  a  water-hole  out 
in  the  dry  spot.  We  got  to  exchangin'  opinions. 
Two  of  mine  he  ain't  forgot,  I  guess." 

"Saunders  is  branded  above  the  elbows  on 
both  arms,"  said  Collie.  "He's  been  shot  up 
pretty  bad." 

"You  don't  tell!  Wonder  how  that  happened. 
Mebby  he  was  practicin'  the  double  roll  and  got 
careless.  Now,  I  wonder!" 

"He's  one  of  the  'bunch'?"  said  Collie,  sud 
denly  awake  to  the  situation.  "Come  on  over  to 
the  bunk-house  where  we  can  talk,  Red.  I'll 
introduce  you  regular  to  Silent." 

"All  right.  Here,  you  walk  on  the  other  side. 
I'm  left-handed  when  I  shake  with  him." 

But  Saunders  was  not  at  the  bunk-house.  In 
stead  he  had  ridden  on  down  to  the  gate  and  out 
upoia  the  Moonstone  Trail.  He  had  become  ac 
quainted  with  Deputy  Tenlow.  He  would  make 
things  interesting  for  the  man  who  had  "  winged  " 
him  out  in  the  desert. 

207 


Overland  Red 

"I  smell  somethin'  burnin',"  said  Overland 
significantly.  "The  Saunders  man  has  got  some- 
thin'  up  his  sleeve.  He  did  n't  turn  his  pony  into 
the  corral,  did  he?" 

"No." 

"All  right.  Now,  about  them  papers  and  your 
part  of  this  here  claim  ... 

For  an  hour  they  talked  about  the  claim,  Win- 
throp,  Collie's  prospects,  and  their  favorite  topic, 
the  Rose  Girl.  They  were  speaking  of  her  when 
she  appeared  at  the  bunk-house  door. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Summers.  Mrs.  Mar 
shall  wished  to  know  if  you  would  tell  her  more 
about  her  brother  —  when  you  have  visited  with 
Collie.  She  was  afraid  you  might  leave  without 
her  seeing  you  again." 

"I  was  thinkin'  about  that  myself,"  replied 
Overland,  "Yes,  Miss,  I'll  be  right  over  di 
rect." 

Louise  nodded,  smiled,  and  was  gone. 

"Say,  Red,  you  better  go  quick,  in  the  ma 
chine,"  said  Collie,  fearful  that  Saunders  was  up 
to  mischief. 

"Grand  idea,  that,"  said  Overland,  calmly 
brushing  his  hat.  "But  Tenlow  and  Saunders  — 
that  you're  thinkin'  about  —  ain't  neither  of  'em 
goin'  to  ride  up  too  close  to  me  again.  They  are 
goin'  to  lay  for  me  down  the  canon.  They'll 
string  a  riata  across  the  road  and  hold  up  the  car, 

208 


To  Cut  My  Trail  Like  That 

most  likely.  They  know  I  can't  get  out  of  here 
any  other  road." 

"Then  what  will  you  do?" 

"Me?  Why,  me  and  the  Guzzuh  '11  go  down 
the  trail  jest  as  slow  and  easy  as  a  baby-buggy 
pushed  by  a  girl  that 's  waitin'  in  the  park  for  her 
beau." 

"You'll  ditch  the  machine  and  get  all  broke 
up,"  ventured  Collie. 

"I  am  havin'  too  good  a  time  to  last,  I  know, 
seein'  the  Rose  Girl  again  and  you  and  visitin' 
the  folks  up  to  the  house.  Well,  if  it's  my  turn,  I 
ain't  kickin'.  Sorry  Brand  ain't  here.  I'd  like  to 
see  him.  Here 's  a  little  old  map  I  drawed  of  the 
hills,  and  how  to  get  to  the  claim  in  case  I  get  de 
tained  for  speedin'.  Get  Brand,  if  anything  hap 
pens.  He's  a  steady  old  boat  and  he'll  tell  you 
what  to  do." 

"But,  Red,  you  don't  think  — ?" 

"Not  when  it  hurts  me  dome,"  interrupted 
Overland.  "I  got  a  hunch  I'll  see  you  again 
before  long.  So  long,  Chico.  I  got  to  shine  some 
of  the  rust  off  my  talk  and  entertain  the  ladies. 
You  might  get  into  my  class,  too,  some  day,  if 
you  knowed  anything  except  hoss-wrastlin'  and 
cow-punchin',"  he  added  affectionately. 

And  Overland  departed,  sublimely  content  and 
not  in  the  least  disturbed  by  future  possibili 
ties.  "He's  the  great  kid!"  he  kept  repeating 


Overland  Red 

to  himself.  "He's  the  same  kid  —  solid  clean 
through.  .  .  .  Good-morning,  ladies.  Now  about 
Billy  —  er  —  Mr.  Winthrop;  why,  as  I  was  say- 
in'  last  night.  .  .  .  No,  thanks,  I'll  set  facin* 
the  road.  ,Sun?  Why,  lady,  I'm  sun-cured, 
myself." 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE   LED   HORSE 

ANNE  MARSHALL  had  stepped  from  tie 
porch  to  the  living-room.  Overland  Red 
was  alone  with  Louise. 

Facing  her  quickly,  his  easy  banter  gone,  his 
blue  eyes  intense,  untroubled,  magnetic,  he  drew 
a  deep  breath.  "They're  waiting  for  me  down 
the  canon,  about  now,"  he  said,  and  his  tone  ex 
plained  his  speech. 

Louise  frowned  slightly,  studying  his  face. 
"That  is  unfortunate,  just  now,"  she  said 
slowly. 

"Or  most  any  time  —  for  the  other  fella,"  re 
sponded  Overland  cheerfully. 

The  girl  gazed  at  the  toe  of  her  slipper.  "I 
know  you  did  n't  speak  because  you  were  afraid. 
What  do  you  intend?" 

"If  I  ain't  oversteppin'  the  rules  in  invitin*  you 
- —  why,  I  was  goin'  to  say,  *  Miss  Lacharme, 
would  n't  you  like  to  take  a  little  buggy-ride  in 
the  Guzzuh,  nice  and  slow.  She's  awful  easy 
ridin'  if  you  don't  rein  her  too  strong.' '' 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Louise  pensively.  "  Your 
car  can  only  hold  two?" 


Overland  Red 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"I  could  n't  run  away  and  leave  Mrs.  Mar 
shall.  Of  course,  you  would  go  on  —  after  — 
after  we  were  in  the  valley.  How  could  I  get 
back?" 

"That's  so!"  exclaimed  Overland,  with  some 
subtlety,  pretending  he  had  not  thought  of  that 
contingency.  "'Course  Collie  could  ride  down 
ahead  with  a  spare  hoss.  You  see  the  sheriff  gent 
and  Saunders  — " 

"Saunders?  Our  man  Saunders?" 

"Uhuh.  Me  and  him  ain't  friends  exactly.  I 
figure  he's  rode  down  to  tell  the  Tenlow  man 
that  I'm  up  here." 

"You  are  sure?" 

"Yes,  Miss.  I  don't  make  no  mistakes  about 
him." 

"Then  one  of  our  men  has  gone  to  get  the 
deputy  to  arrest  you,  and  you  are  our  guest." 

"Thanks,  Miss,  for  sayin'  that.  It's  worth 
gettin'  pinched  to  be  your  guest." 

"I  did  intend  to  ride  down  for  the  mail.  Boyar 
needs  exercising." 

"So  does  the  Guzzuh,  Miss.  It's  queer  how 
she  acts  when  she  ain't  been  worked  every  day." 

"I  don't  believe  Anne  would  care  .to  come,  in 
the  machine.  I '11  ask  her."  And  Louise  stepped 
to  the  living-room. 

Collie,  who  had  been  watching  anxiously  from 


The  Led  Horse 

the  corrals,  came  across  the  yard  to  the  veranda. 
He  was  dressed  for  riding,  and  he  had  a  gun  on  his 
hip.  Overland  scowled.  "You  little  idiot,"  he 
said,  "when  your  Uncle  Jack's  brains  get  ossi 
fied,  just  give  the  sad  news  to  the  press.  You  're 
jest  itchin'  to  get  in  a  muss  and  get  plugged.  I 
ain't.  I  figure  to  ride  down  the  Moonstone  Trail, 
steerin'  the  Guzzuh  with  one  hand  and  smellin' 
a  bunch  of  roses  in  the  other.  Watch  my  smoke. 
Now,  beat  it!" 

Louise,  coming  blithely  from  the  living-room, 
nodded  to  Overland.  Her  pensiveness  had  de 
parted.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed.  "Oh,  Collie  I 
Saddle  Boyar — "  she  began,  but  Overland 
coughed  disapprovingly.  He  did  not  wish  Tenlow 
and  Saunders  to  suspect  that  the  led  horse  was 
for  Louise. 

"Or  —  no.  Saddle  Sarko,"  said  Louise,  at 
once  aware  of  Overland's  plan.  "And  have  him 
at  the  foot  of  the  hill  for  me  as  soon  as  you 


can.'' 


:'Yes,  Miss  Louise."  And  Collie  departed  for 
the  corrals  wonderingly.  Overland  was  too  much 
for  him. 

They  had  luncheon  and  allowed  Collie  two 
hours  to  arrive  at  the  valley  level  with  the  led 
pony.  After  luncheon  Louise  appeared  in  riding- 
skirt  and  boots.  "Mr.  Summers  is  going  to  take 
me  for  a  ride  in  his  new  car,"  she  said.  "Don't 

213 


Overland  Red 

worry,  aunty.  He  is  going  to  drive  slowly.  He 
finds  that  he  has  to  leave  unexpectedly." 

"I'm  sorry  you  are  going  without  seeing  Mr. 
Stone  and  Dr.  Marshall  again,"  said  Aunt 
Eleanor.  "You'll  be  careful,  won't  you?" 

"So  am  I,  ma'am.  —  Yes,  I'll  run  slow." 

"  But  how  will  you  come  back?  "  queried  Anne. 

"Collie  has  gone  ahead  with  a  spare  pony. 
Good-bye,  aunty." 

"I  can't  thank  you  enough  for  all  that  you 
have  done  for  Billy.  I  am  so  glad  he's  well  and 
strong  again.  We  never  could  manage  him. 
Good-bye,  and  tell  Billy  he  must  come  over  and 
see  us  right  away." 

"You'll  drive  carefully? "queried  Aunt  Elea 
nor  again. 

"Jest  like  I  was  goin'  to  get  pinched,"  said 
Overland,  bowing. 

As  Collie  rode  down  the  last  pitch,  leading  the 
restive  Sarko,  Dick  Tenlow  stepped  from  the 
brush.  "'Morning,  Collie.  Out  for  a  little 
pasear?" 

"Should  n't  wonder,  Dick." 

"Horses  are  lookin'  good.  Feed  good  on  the 
hills  yet?" 

"Pretty  good." 

"I  hear  you  got  company  up  to  the  Moon 
stone." 

214 


The  Led  Horse 

"Yep.  Eastern  folks,  doctor  and  his  wife." 
And  Collie  looked  the  deputy  hard  in  the  eye. 

"Oh,  that  was  their  machine  I  heard  coughin* 
up  the  canon  last  night,  eh?" 

"I  did  n't  ask  them  about  that,"  replied  Collie. 

"You're  improvin'  since  you  first  come  into 
these  hills,"  said  Tenlow,  with  some  sarcasm. 

"I'm  holdin'  down  a  better  job  than  I  did 
then,"  said  Collie  good-naturedly, 

"Well,  I  ain't.  I'm  holdin'  the  same  job, 
which  you  will  recollect.  It  ain't  much  of  a  job, 
but  it's  good  to  requisition  that  cayuseyou're 
leadin'." 

"What  you  kiddin'  about?" 

"Straight  goods,"  said  Tenlow,  reaching  for 
Sarko's  reins.  "Just  hand  over  your  end  of  that 
tie-rope." 

"I  guess  not,  Dick.  You  're  on  the  wrong  trail. 
What  do  you  think  I  am?" 

"Same  as  I  always  thought." 

"Then  you  want  to  change  your  opinion  of 
me,"  said  Collie,  relinquishing  the  tie-rope.  "I 
ain't  breaking  the  law,  but  you  are  going  to  hear 
more  about  this." 

"I'll  risk  that.  You  can  ride  right  along, 
pronto." 

"And  you  keep  Sarko?  I  guess  not!  I'll 
stick." 

"You  can't  throw  no  bluff  this  morning,"  said 
215 


Overland  Red 

Tenlow,  irritated  by  the  youth's  persistence.  "I 
guess  you  know  what  I  mean." 

"  You  got  the  horse,  but  I  don't  leave  here  with 
out  him,"  said  Collie  stubbornly.  And  there  was 
an  underlying  assurance  about  Collie's  attitude 
that  perplexed  the  deputy,  who  was  satisfied  that 
the  led  horse  was  for  Overland  Red's  use. 

Saunders,  hiding  back  in  the  brush,  cursed 
Tenlow's  stupidity.  To  have  let  Collie  go  on  and 
have  followed  him  under  cover  would  have  been 
the  only  sensible  plan.  Rapidly  approximating 
the  outcome  of  this  muddle,  Saunders  untied  his 
pony  and  rode  back  toward  the  ranch,  taking  an 
unused  and  densely  covered  bridle-trail. 

From  up  in  the  canon  came  the  thunder  of  the 
racing-car.  Far  above  them  Tenlow  and  Collie 
could  see  it  creeping  round  a  turn  in  the  road.  It 
disappeared  in  a  dip,  to  reappear  almost  in 
stantly,  gliding  swiftly  down  the  long  slant 
toward  the  valley.  The  staccato  drumming  of  the 
exhaust  echoed  along  the  hillside.  Overland's  silk 
hat  shone  bravely  in  the  sun.  Beside  the  outlaw 
was  the  figure  of  a  woman.  Tenlow  foresaw  com 
plications  and  muttered  profanely. 

Down  the  next  ditch  rolled  the  car,  rocking  to 
the  unevenness  of  the  mountain  road.  Overland 
opened  the  throttle,  the  machine  shot  forward, 
and  in  a  few  seconds  drew  up  abreast  of  the 
deputy. 

216 


The  Led  Horse 

"Thank  you  so  much,  Mr.  Summers,"  said 
Louise,  stepping  from  the  car.  "How  are  you, 
Mr.  Tenlow." 

"How'do,  Miss  Lacharme." 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Summers.  I  enjoyed  the  ride 
very  much." 

"Just  a  minute  — "  began  the  deputy. 

"Where's  my  pony,  Collie?  He  didn't  get 
away,  did  he?" 

"No,  ma'am.  Mr.  Tenlow  'requisitioned* 
him.  Thought  I  'd  wait  till  you  came  along  so  I 
could  explain." 

"Requisitioned  my  pony!  What  do  you 
mean?" 

"It's  this  way,  Miss  Lacharme.  That  man 
there  in  the  machine  is  wanted.  He  — " 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  my  pony,  please?" 

"I  guess  you  know  who  he  is.  I  figured  he  was 
layin'  to  get  away  on  that  pony." 

"You  want  to  go  back  to  school,  pardner,  and 
learn  to  figure  correct,"  said  Overland,  his  foot 
on  the  accelerator  pedal  of  the  throbbing  car. 
"One  minus  one  is  no  thin'." 

"Hold  on  there!"  cried  Tenlow,  striding  for 
ward.  Louise  stood  between  the  deputy  and  the 
car. 

"My  horse,  please,"  she  said  quietly.  As  she 
spoke  the  car  roared,  jumped  forward,  and  shot 
down  the  smooth  grade  of  the  valley  road. 

217 


Overland  Red 

"Now,  Mr.  Tenlow,  I  wish  you  would  explain 
this  to  me.  And  then  to  Uncle  Walter.  I  sent  one 
of  our  men  with  a  horse.  He  was  to  wait  for  me 
here.  What  right  have  you  to  interfere  with 
him?" 

"I  guess  I  got  as  much  right  as  you  have  to 
interfere  with  me,"  said  Tenlow  sullenly. 

"Hold  on  there!"  cried  Collie,  jumping  for 
ward. 

"Collie,  I '11  talk  with  him." 

"Take  my  horse,  Miss  Louise,"  said  Collie, 
flushing. 

"No,  indeed.  I'll  ride  Sarko." 

"I '11  get  him,"  said  Collie. 

"No.   Mr.  Tenlow  will  get  him,  I  am  sure." 

"A  woman  can  make  any  deal  look  smooth  — 
if  she  is  interested,"  said  Tenlow,  turning  toward 
the  brush.  He  came  out  leading  the  pony. 

"Thank  you.  Collie,  you  may  get  the  mail, 
please." 

Collie  stood  watching  her  as  she  rode  away. 
Then  with  much  deliberation  he  tied  his  own 
pony  Apache  to  a  clump  of  greasewood.  He  un 
buckled  his  belt  and  flung  it,  with  gun  and  hol 
ster,  to  the  ground. 

"Now,"  he  said,  his  face  blazing  white  with 
suppressed  anger.  "I'm  going  to  make  you  eat 
that  speech  about  any  woman  making  things 
look  smooth  —  if  she's  interested" 

218 


The  Led  Horse 

"You  go  on  home  or  I'll  break  you  in  two," 
said  Tenlow. 

Collie's  reply  was  a  flail-like  blow  between 
Tenlow's  eyes.  The  deputy  staggered,  gritted  his 
teeth,  and  flung  himself  at  the  younger  man.  The 
fight  was  unequal  from  the  beginning.  Apache 
snorted  and  circled  as  the  bushes  crashed  and 
crackled. 

A  few  minutes  later,  Tenlow  strode  from  the 
brush  leading  his  pony.  He  wiped  the  blood  and 
sweat  from  his  face  and  spat  viciously. 

Louise,  riding  homeward  slowly,  heard  a  horse 
coming  behind  her.  She  reined  Sarko  and 
waited.  Collie  saw  no  way  out  of  it,  so  he  rode 
up,  grinning  from  a  bruised  and  battered  face. 

"Why,  Collie!" 

The  young  man  grinned  again.  His  lips  were 
swollen  and  one  eye  was  nearly  closed. 

Dismounting,  Louise  stepped  to  the  ford. 
"Oh,  I'm  sorry!"  she  cried.  "Your  face  is  ter 
ribly  bruised.  And  your  eye  — "  She  could  not 
help  smiling  at  Collie's  ludicrous  appearance. 

" I  took  a  fall,"  he  mumbled  blandly.  "Apache 
here  is  tricky  at  times." 

Louise's  gaze  was  direct  and  reproachful. 
"Here,  let  me  bathe  your  face.  Stoop  down,  like 
that.  You  don't  look  so  badly,  now  that  the  dirt 
is  off.  Surely  you  did  n't  fall  on  your  eye?'9 

219 


Overland  Red 

Collie  tried  to  laugh,  but  the  effort  was  not 
very  successful. 

Tenderly  she  bathed  his  bruised  face.  He* 
nearness,  her  touch,  made  him  forget  the  pain. 
Suddenly  he  seized  her  hand  and  kissed  it,  leav 
ing  a  stain  of  blood  where  his  lips  had  touched. 
She  was  thrilled  with  a  mingled  feeling  of  pride 
and  shame  —  pride  in  that  he  had  fought  because 
of  her,  as  she  knew  well  enough,  and  shame  at  the 
brutality  of  the  affair  which  she  understood  as 
clearly  as  though  she  had  witnessed  it.  She  was 
too  honest  to  make  herself  believe  she  was  not 
flattered,  in  a  way,  but  she  made  Collie  think 
otherwise. 

He  evaded  her  direct  questioning  stubbornly. 
Finally  she  asked  whether  Mr.  Tenlow  "had 
taken  a  fall,"  or  not. 

"Sure  he  did!"  replied  Collie.  "A  couple  or 
three  years  ago  —  tryin'  to  outride  Overland 
Red.  Don't  you  remember?" 

"Collie,  you're  a  regular  hypocrite." 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"And  you  look  —  frightful." 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"You're  not  a  bit  ashamed." 
'Yes,  ma'am,  I  am." 

"Don't  say  'Yes,  ma'am'  all  the  time.  You 
don't  seem  to  be  ashamed.  Why  should  you  be, 
though.  Because  you  were  fighting?" 

220 


The  Led  Horse 

"No,  Miss  Louise.  Because  I  got  licked." 

Louise  mounted  Sarko  and  rode  beside  Collie 
silently.  Presently  she  touched  his  arm.  "But 
did  you?"  she  asked,  her  eyes  grave  and  her 
tone  conveying  a  subtle  question  above  the  mere 
letter. 

"No!  By  thunder!"  he  exclaimed.  "Not  in  a 
hundred  years!" 

"Well,  get  some  raw  meat  from  the  cook.  I'll 
give  your  explanation  to  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Marshall, 
for  you  will  have  to  be  ready  for  the  trip  to 
morrow.  You  will  have  to  think  of  a  better  ex 
planation  for  the  boys." 

While  riding  homeward,  Louise  dropped  her 
glove.  Collie  was  afoot  instantly  and  picked  it 
up.  "Can  I  keep  it?"  he  said. 

The  girl  looked  curiously  at  him  for  a  moment. 
"No,  I  think  not,  Collie,"  she  said  gently. 

Collie  rode  up  to  the  corrals  that  afternoon 
whistling  as  blithely  as  he  could  considering  his 
injuries.  He  continued  to  whistle  as  he  unsad 
dled  Apache. 

At  the  bunk-house  Brand  Williams  looked  at 
him  once,  and  bent  double  with  silent  laughter. 
The  boys  badgered  him  unmercifully.  "Fell  off 
a  hoss!  — Go  tell  that  to  the  chink! --Who 
stepped  on  your  face,  kid?  — Been  ridin'  on  your 
map,  eh?  —  Where  was  the  wreck?  — Who 
sewed  up  your  eye?" 


Overland  Red 

"S-s-h-h,  fellas,"  said  Miguel,  grinning.  "If 
you  make  all  that  noise,  how  you  going  to  hear 
the  tune  he  is  whistling,  hey?" 

Collie  glanced  at  Saunders,  who  had  said  no 
thing.  "Got  anything  to  offer  on  the  subject, 
Silent?  "he  asked. 

"Nope.  I  take  mine  out  in  thinkin'." 

"You're  going  to  have  a  chance  to  do  a  whole 
lot  more  of  it  before  long,"  said  Collie;  and  he 
said  it  with  a  suggestiveness  that  did  not  escape 
the  taciturn  foreman,  Brand  Williams. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

BORROWED   PLUMES 

HE  speaks  of  a  pretty  round  sum,"  said 
Walter  Stone,  returning  the  letter  that 
Collie  had  asked  him  to  read.  "I  don't  know  but 
that  the  land  you  speak  of  is  a  good  investment. 
You  were  thinking  of  raising  stock  —  horses?" 

"Yes,  sir.  The  Oro  people  are  making  good  at 
it.  The  land  north  of  you  is  good  grazing-land 
and  good  water.  Of  course,  I  got  to  wait  for  a 
while.  Red  says  in  the  letter  that  my  share  of  the 
claim  so  far  is  five  thousand.  That  would  n't  go 
far  on  that  piece  of  land,  but  I've  saved  some, 
too." 

"You  might  make  a  payment  to  hold  the 
land,"  said  Stone. 

"I  don't  like  that  way.  I  want  to  buy  it  all  at 


once." 


Walter  Stone  smiled.  Collie  was  ambitious, 
and  rather  inexperienced.  "So  you  think  you 
will  leave  us  and  go  to  mining  until  you  have 
made  enough  more  to  buy  it  outright?" 

"Yes,  sir.  I  don't  want  you  to  think  I  ain't 
satisfied  here.  I  like  it  here." 

"I  know  you  do,  Collie.  Well,  think  it  over. 
223 


Overland  Red 

Prospecting  is  gambling.  It  is  sometimes  magni 
ficent  gambling.  Miss  Lacharme's  father  was  a 
prospector.  We  have  never  heard  from  him  since 
he  went  out  on  the  desert.  But  that  has  nothing 
to  do  with  it.  If  I  did  n't  believe  you  'd  make  a 
first-rate  citizen,  I  should  n't  hesitate  a  minute 
about  your  going.  I  'd  rather  see  you  ranching  it. 
We  need  solid  men  here  in  California.  There  are 
so  many  remittance-men,  invalids,  idlers,  specu 
lators,  and  unbalanced  enthusiasts  that  do  more 
harm  than  good,  that  we  need  a  few  new  land 
marks.  We  need  a  few  new  cornerstones  and  key 
stones  to  stiffen  the  structure  that  is  building  so 
fast.  I  realize  that  we  must  build  from  the 
ground  up  —  not  hang  out  tents  from  the  trees. 
That  day  is  past." 

"It's  a  big  thing  —  to  be  stuck  on  California 
more  than  getting  rich,"  said  Collie. 

"Yes.  The  State  of  California  is  a  bank  —  a 
new  bank.  The  more  depositors  we  have,  the 
stronger  we  shall  be  —  provided  our  depositors 
have  faith  in  us.  We  have  their  good  will  now. 
We  need  solid,  two-handed  men  who  can  take 
hold  and  prove  that  investment  in  our  State  is 
profitable." 

"You  bet!"  exclaimed  Collie,  catching  some 
of  the  older  man's  enthusiasm.  Then  he  added 
with  less  enthusiasm:  "But  how  about  such 
things  as  the  Jap  ranchers  dumping  carloads  of 


Borrowed  Plumes 

onions  in  the  rivers  and  melons  in  the  ocean,  by 
the  ton,  and  every  one  cut  so  it  can't  be  used 
by  poor  folks?  If  Eastern  people  got  on  to  that 
they  would  shy  off  pretty  quick." 

"Yes,"  said  the  rancher,  frowning.  "It's  true 
enough  that  such  things  do  happen.  I  Ve  known 
of  boatloads  of  fish  being  dumped  back  in  the 
ocean  because  the  middlemen  would  n't  give 
the  fishermen  a  living  price.  In  western  Canada 
thousands  of  bushels  of  grain  have  been  burned 
on  the  ground  because  the  Eastern  market  was 
down  and  the  railroads  would  not  make  a  rate 
that  would  allow  a  profit  to  the  farmer.  Such 
things  are  not  local  to  California.  California  is 
in  the  limelight  just  now  and  such  things  are 
naturally  prominent." 

"It  looks  awful  bad  for  good  fruit  and  vege 
tables  and  fish  to  be  thrown  away  when  folks 
have  to  pay  ten  cents  for  a  loaf  of  bread  no  bigger 
than  a  watch-charm,"  said  Collie. 

"It  is  bad.  Crookedness  in  real  estate  transac 
tions  is  bad.  We  don't  want  to  waste  our  time, 
however,  in  feeling  worried  about  it.  What  we 
want  to  do  is  to  show  the  other  fellow  that  our 
work  is  successful  and  straight." 

"Yes,  sir.  A  fellow  has  got  to  believe  in  some 
thing.  I  guess  believing  in  his  own  State  is  the 
best." 

"Of  course.  Now,  about  your  leaving  us.  1 
225 


Overland  Red 

had  rather  you  would  stay  until  the  Marshalls 
go.  Louise  and  Mrs.  Stone  depend  on  you  so 
much." 

"Sure  I  will!  You  see,  Red  don't  say  to  come, 
in  his  letter,  but  he  sent  the  check  for  three  hun 
dred  if  I  did  want  to  come.  There's  no  hurry." 

"All  right.  Hello,  Louise!  Dinner  waiting?" 

"Yes,  Uncle  Walter.  How  are  you,  Collie?" 
And  Louise  nodded  to  him.  "What  are  you  two 
hatching?  You  seem  so  serious." 

"Plans  for  the  ultimate  glory  of  the  State," 
said  Stone. 

"Ultimate?" 

"Yes.  We've  been  going  beneath  the  surface 
of  things  a  little.  Collie  expects  to  go  even 
deeper,  so  he  tells  me." 

Collie  walked  slowly  toward  the  bunk-house. 
Halfway  there  he  took  Overland 's  check  from  the 
letter  and  studied  it.  He  put  it  back  into  his 
pocket.  As  he  passed  the  corrals,  Apache  nick 
ered  in  a  friendly  way.  "Have  n't  got  a  thing  for 
you,"  said  Collie.  "Not  a  bite.  We 're  not  goin5 
to  town  to-day.  To-morrow,  maybe,  for  there  'II 
be  doings  at  the  Oro  Rancho  and  we'll  be  there 
—  we '11  be  there!" 

With  a  run  and  a  spring  the  young  man  leaped 
the  gate  and  trotted  into  the  bunk-house. 

Brand  Williams  was  solemnly  shaving.  He 
turned  a  lathered  face  toward  Collie  whose  ab- 

226 


Borrowed  Plumes 

nipt  entrance  had  all  but  caused  the  foreman  to 
sacrifice  his  left  ear.  "Well,"  he  drawled,  "who 
is  dead?" 

"You  mean,  Who  is  alive?  I  guess.  Say, 
Brand,  what  do  you  think  that  Yuma  horse  over 
at  the  Oro  is  worth?" 

"That  dam'  outlaw?  Ain't  worth  the  trouble 
of  mentioning." 

"But,  oh,  Brand,  she's  built  right!  I  tell  you! 
Short-coupled,  and  them  legs  and  withers !  They 
ain't  a  pony  in  the  valley  can  touch  her.  And 
only  three  years  old!" 

"Nor  a  man  neither,"  said  Williams. 

"She's  been  scared  to  death  because  the  fel 
lows  was  scared  of  her  and  started  in  wrong." 

"So '11  the  man  be  that  tries  to  ride  her.  Say,  I 
seen  that  copper-colored,  china-eyed,  she-son  of  a 
Kansas  cyclone  put  Bull  O'Toole  so  far  to  the  bad 
once  that  his  return  ticket  expired  long  before  he 
got  back.  I  tell  you,  kid,  she's  outlaw.  She's  got 
the  disposition  of  a  Comanche  with  a  streak  of 
lightnin'  on  a  drunk  throwed  in.  You  keep  off 
that  boss!" 

"Maybe,"  said  Collie.  "But  I  notice  you  put 
me  to  breakin'  about  all  the  stock  on  this  ranch 
that  you  can't  handle  yourself." 

Which  was  true.  Williams  shaved  and  per 
spired  in  silence. 

"Let's  see,"  he  said  presently,  emerging  from 
227 


Overland  Red 

the  wash-basin.  "When's  that  barbecue  comin* 
off?" 

"To-morrow.  As  if  you  did  n't  know!" 

"Sunday,  eh?  Well,  you  might  as  well  get 
killed  on  a  Sunday  as  any  other  day.  I  suppose 
your  askin'  about  that  boss  means  you  are 
thinkin'  of  ridin'  her,  eh?" 

"I  was  thinkin'  of  it.  They  are  putting  her  up 
as  a  chance  for  the  man  that  can.  She  has  put 
three  of  their  boys  to  the  bad.  Matt  Gleason,  the 
Oro  foreman,  says  he'll  give  her  to  any  Moon- 
stoner  that  can  stay  on  her  two  minutes." 

"He  said  'Moonstoner'  particular?"  queried 
Williams. 

"He  did.  To  me.  I  was  over  tryin'  to  buy 
her." 

"You're  plumb  loco.  So  he  said  any  Moon- 
stoner  eh?  Any  Moonstoner.  By  crip,  I've  a 
notion  —  Let 's  see,  there 's  Miguel  —  he 's  too 
swift.  Billy  Dime  might  make  it  if  he  did  n't 
get  too  much  red-eye  in  him  first.  Bud  ain't 
steady  enough  —  and  it  would  n't  look  right  if 
I  was  the  only  rider  here  to  take  a  chance.  I 
dunno." 

"What  you  gaspin'  about?"  queried  Col 
lie. 

"Nothin',  kid.  You  can  get  hosses  ready  for 
all  the  ladies  for  to-morrow  mornin'  at  six  sharp. 
Sabe?  I  got  orders  to  send  you  over  with  'em. 

228 


Borrowed  Plumes 

Mebby  you're  some  proud  now,  eh?  Well,  don't 
fall  off  Apache  pertendin'  you're  so  polite  you 
can't  spit." 

"What  you  sore  about,  Brand?" 

"I  was  thinkin'  what  a  slashin'  string  of  riders 
we  got.  Here  a  little  old  ranch  like  the  Oro  says 
they  '11  give  a  hoss  to  any  Moonstoner  what  kin 
stay  on  him  for  two  minutes.  It's  plumb  sick- 
enin'.  Kids !  Jest  kids,  on  this  ranch." 

"That  so?  Say,  Brand,  you  ain't  got  rid  of  so 
much  English  talk  at  once  since  I  been  here.  You 
ought  to  talk  more.  You  keep  too  quiet.  Talking 
sociable  will  help  to  take  the  wrinkles  out  of  your 
neck." 

"You  talk  so  much  you'll  never  live  to  get 
any." 

"Say,  Brand." 

"Uhuh." 

"Will  you  lend  me  the  Chola  spurs  and  that 
swell  quirt  old  Miguel  plaited  for  you,  and  your 
Mexican  bridle,  just  for  to-morrow?" 

"So  that's  what  you  been  lovin'  up  to  me  for, 
eh?" 

"Lovin'  up  to  you,  you  darned  old  —  darned 
old  —  dude,  you." 

"Hold  on!  You  said  it!  Take  the  spurs !  Take 
the  quirt!  Take  the  bridle!  Take  the  hat  and 
gloves  with  the  silk  roses  on!  Anybody  that's 
got  nerve  enough  to  call  me  a  dude  can  take 

229 


Overland  Red 

anything  I  got.  Say,  you  don't  want  to  borrow  a 
pair  of  pants,  do  you?" 

Honors  were  about  even  when  Collie  left  the 
bunk-house,  his  arms  laden  with  the  foreman's 
finery.  He  colored  to  his  hair  as  he  saw  Louise 
coming  toward  him.  He  fumbled  at  the  gate, 
opened  it,  and  stood  aside  for  her  to  pass.  jVs 
she  smiled  and  thanked  him,  he  heard  his  name 
called. 

"Hey!"  shouted  Williams,  coming  suddenly 
from  the  bunk-house.  "Hey,  Collie!  You  went 
away  without  them  pants!  I'll  lend  'em  to 
you- 

Collie,  his  face  flaming,  strode  down  the  trail, 
the  blood  drumming  in  his  ears. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE   YUMA   COLT 

THE  Oro  Rancho  sent  out  word  that  the  fifti 
eth  year  of  its  existence  would  be  celebrated 
with  an  old-fashioned  Spanish  barbecue.  The 
invitation  was  general,  including  every  one 
within  a  radius  of  fifty  miles. 

Added  to  the  natural  interest  in  good  things  to 
eat  and  drink  was  that  of  witnessing  the  pony 
races.  Each  rancher  would  bring,  casually,  al 
most  accidentally,  as  it  were,  one  pony  that  repre 
sented  its  owner's  idea  of  speed  and  quality.  No 
set  programme  offered,  which  made  the  races  all 
the  more  interesting  in  that  they  were  genuine. 

The  Oro  Ranch  had  long  ago  established  and 
proudly  maintained  a  reputation  for  breeding 
the  best  saddle-  and  work-stock  in  Southern 
California.  In  fact,  the  ranch  survived  the  com 
petition  of  the  automobile  chiefly  because  it  was 
the  only  important  stock-raising  ranch  in  the 
southland. 

Good  feeling  went  even  so  far  as  to  include  the 
sheep-ranchers  of  the  old  Spanish  Grant,  by 
special  invitation. 

It  was  the  delight  and  pride  of  native  Cali- 
231 


Overland  Red 

fornians  to  ride  their  best  saddle-horses  on  such 
occasions.  True,  motor-cars  came  from  the  city 
and  from  the  farthest  homes,  but  locally  saddle- 
horses  of  all  sizes  and  kinds  were  in  evidence.  Sleek 
bays  with  "Kentucky"  written  in  every  rippling 
muscle,  single-footed  in  beside  heavy  mountain 
ponies,  well  boned,  broad  of  knee,  strong  of  flank, 
and  docile;  lean  mustangs  of  the  valley,  short- 
coupled  buckskins  with  the  endurance  of  live 
rawhide;  Mexican  pintos,  restless  and  gay  in 
carved  leather,  and  silver  trappings;  scrawny 
stolid  cayuses  that  looked  half -starved,  but  that 
could  out-eat  and  out-last  many  a  better-built 
horse;  they  all  came,  and  their  riders  were  im 
mediately  made  welcome. 

Under  the  trees,  along  the  corrals  and  fences, 
in  and  around  the  stables,  stood  the  ponies,  heads 
tossing,  bits  jingling,  stamping,  thoroughly  alive 
to  the  importance  of  the  festive  occasion,  and 
filling  the  eye  with  an  unforgettable  picture  —  a 
living  vignette  of  the  old  days  of  the  range  and 
riata. 

Mrs.  Stone,  Mrs.  Marshall,  Louise,  Dr.  Mar 
shall,  and  Walter  Stone  were  among  the  earlier 
arrivals.  A  half-dozen  men  sprang  to  take  their 
horses  as  they  rode  up,  but  Collie  gathered  the 
bridle-reins  and  led  the  ponies  to  the  shade  of  tne 
pepper  trees.  Then  he  wandered  over  to  the  cor 
rals.  His  eyes  glowed  as  he  watched  the  sleek 


The  Yuma  Colt 

ponies  dodging,  wheeling,  circling  like  a  battalion, 
and  led  by  a  smooth-coated,  copper-hued  mare, 
young,  lithe,  straight-limbed,  and  as  beautifully 
rounded  as  a  Grecian  bronze.  He  moistened  his 
lips  as  he  watched  her.  He  pushed  back  his  hat, 
felt  for  tobacco  and  papers,  and  rolled  a  cigarette. 
This  was  the  renowned  "Yuma  colt,"  the  out-; 
law.  He  wanted  her.  She  was  a  horse  in  a  thou 
sand. 

In  some  strange  way  he  was  conscious  that 
Louise  stood  beside  him,  before  he  turned  and 
raised  his  sombrero. 

"More  beautiful  than  strong  men  or  beautiful 
women,"  said  Louise. 

"That's  so,  Miss  Louise.  Because  they  just 
live  natural  and  act  natural.  And  that  copper- 
colored  mare,  —  she 's  only  a  colt  yet,  —  there 's 
a  horse  a  man  would  be  willing  to  work  seven 
years  for  like  the  man  in  the  Bible  did  for  his 
wife." 

Louise  smiled.  "Would  you  work  seven  years 
for  her?"  she  asked. 

"I  would,  if  I  had  to,"  he  said  enthusiastically. 

"Of  course,  because  you  really  love  horses, 
don't  you?" 

"Better  than  anything  else.  Of  course,  there 
are  mean  ones.  But  a  real  good  horse  comes  close 
to  making  an  ordinary  man  feel  ashamed  of  him 
self.  Why,  see  what  a  horse  will  do!  He  will  go 

233 


Overland  Red 

anywhere  —  work  all  day  and  all  night  if  he  has 
to  —  run  till  he  breaks  his  heart  to  save  a  fellow's 
life,  and  always  be  a  friend.  A  horse  never  acts 
like  eight  hours  was  his  day's  work.  He  is  willing 
at  any  time  and  all  the  time  —  and  self-respectin' 
and  clean.  I  reckon  a  knowin'  horse  just  plumb 
loves  a  man  that  is  good  to  him." 

Louise,  her  gray  eyes  wide  and  pensive,  gazed 
at  the  young  cowboy.  "How  old  is  the  colt?  "  she 
asked. 

"They  say  three  years.  But  she's  older  than 
that  in  brains.  She  is  leading  older  horses  than 
her." 

"Then  if  you  worked  seven  years  for  her,  she 
would  be  ten  years  old  before  you  owned  her." 

"You  caught  me  there.  I  didn't  think  of 
that." 

"  Uncle  Walter  says  she  is  outlaw.  I  believe  she 
could  be  tamed.  Boyar  was  pretty  wild  before  he 
was  broken  to  ride." 

"If  you  want  that  pony,  Miss  Louise,  she's 
yours.  I  guess  I  could  break  her." 

"They  won't  sell  her.  No,  I  was  only  ro 
mancing.  Is  n't  she  beautiful !  She  seems  to  be 
almost  listening  to  us.  What  a  head  and  what  a 
quick,  intelligent  eye !  Oh,  you  wonderful  horse ! " 
And  laughing,  Louise  threw  a  kiss  to  the  Yuma 
colt.  "I  must  go.  I  came  over  to  see  the  horses 
before  the  crowd  arrived." 

234 


The  Yuma  Colt 

Collie  stood  hat  in  hand  watching  Louise  as 
she  strolled  toward  the  ranch-house.  He  saw  her 
stop  and  pat  Boyar. 

"I  kind  of  wish  I  was  a  horse  myself,"  he  said 
whimsically.  "Either  the  black  or  the  outlaw. 
She  treats  them  both  fine." 

Brand  Williams,  Bud  Light,  Parson  Long, 
Billy  Dime,  and  Miguel  rode  up,  talking,  joking, 
laughing. 

"Fall  to  the  kid!"  said  Miguel,  indicating 
Collie.  "  I  guess  I  'm  scalded  if  he  ain't  nailed  to 
the  fence.  He's  just  eating  his  head  off  thinking 
about  the  Yuma  horse  he  dassent  ride.  No?  Eh5 
Collie?" 

"Hello,  Miguel.  Nope.  I'm  taking  lessons  in 
tendin'  to  my  own  business  —  like  them."  And 
Collie  nodded  toward  the  horses. 

"Ain't  he  purty  ?  "  said  Billy  Dime.  "All  fussed 
up  and  walkin'  round  like  a  new  rooster  introducin' 
hisself  to  a  set  of  strange  hens.  Oh,  pshaw!" 

"And  you're  making  a  noise  like  one  of  the 
hens  trying  to  get  the  notice  of  the  new  rooster,  I 
guess." 

"Well,  seein'  I  got  the  notice,  come  on  over 
and  I  '11  show  you  where  they  keep  the  ice  — 
with  things  on  it,"  said  Billy  Dime. 

The  Moonstone  riders  dismounted,  slapped  the 
dust  from  their  shirts  and  trousers,  and  ambled 
over  toward  the  refreshments. 

235 


Overland  Red 

The  little  group,  happy,  talkative,  pledged 
each  other  and  the  Moonstone  Ranch  generously. 

Brand  Williams,  close  to  Collie,  nudged  him. 
"If  you  are  thinkin'  of  takin'  a  fall  out  of  the 
outlaw  cayuse,  don't  hit  this  stuff  much,"  he 
said.  And  Collie  nodded. 

The  Moonstoners  would  one  and  all  back 
Boyar  for  a  place  in  the  finals  of  the  pony  races, 
despite  the  Mexican  "outfit"  that  already  min 
gled  with  them  making  bets  on  their  favorite 
pinto. 

"Who's  ridin'  Boyar?"  queried  Bud  Light. 

"In  the  races?  Why,  Miguel  here,"  said  Wil 
liams,  slapping  the  Mexican  on  the  shoulder. 
"He  don't  weigh  much,  but  he's  some  glue-on-a- 
sliver  when  it  comes  to  racin'  tricks.  The  other 
Mexicans  are  after  our  pesos  this  time.  Last  year 
we  skinned  'em  so  bad  with  Boyar  takin'  first 
that  some  of  'em  had  to  wait  till  dark  to  go 
home." 

Collie,  listening,  felt  his  heart  pump  faster. 
He  turned  away  for  an  instant  that  his  fellows 
might  not  see  the  disappointment  in  his  face.  He 
had  hoped  to  ride  Boyar  to  victory. 

"Miss  Louise  could  get  more  out  of  Boyar  in  a 
race  than  even  Miguel  here,"  said  Billy  Dime. 

"I  dunno,"  said  Williams.  "She  give  me 
orders  that  Miguel  was  to  ride  Boyar  if  they  was 
any  racin'." 


The  Yuma  Colt 

So  Louise  herself  had  chosen  Miguel  to  ride  the 
pony.  Collie  grew  unreasonably  jealous.  Once 
more  and  again  he  pledged  the  Moonstone  Rancho 
in  a  brimming  cup.  Then  he  wandered  over  to 
the  Mexican  ponies,  inspecting  them  casually. 

A  Mexican  youth,  handsome,  dark,  smiling, 
offered  to  bet  with  him  on  the  result  of  the  races. 
Collie  declined,  but  gained  his  point.  He  learned 
the  Mexican's  choice  for  first  place,  a  lean,  wiry 
buckskin  with  a  goat  head  and  a  wicked  eye,  but 
with  wonderful  flanks  and  withers.  Collie  medi 
tated.  As  a  result  he  placed  something  like  fifty 
dollars  in  bets  with  various  ranchers,  naming 
the  Mexican  horse  for  first  place.  Word  went 
round  that  the  Moonstone  Kid  was  betting 
against  his  own  horse. 

Later  Brand  Williams  accosted  him.  "What 
you  fell  up  against?"  he  asked  sternly.  "What 
made  you  jar  yourself  loose  like  that?" 

"It's  horses  with  me  to-day  —  not  home- 
sweet-home,  Brand.  Bet  you  a  pair  of  specs  — 
and  you  need  'em  —  to  a  bag  of  peanuts  that  the 
Chola  cayuse  runs  first." 

"Your  brains  is  afloat,  son.  You  better  cut  out 
the  booze." 

Unexpectedly  Collie  encountered  Louise  as  he 
went  to  look  after  his  own  horses. 

"I  hear  that  you  intend  to  ride  the  outlaw 
Yuma.  Is  it  so?" 

237 


Overland  Red 

Collie  nodded. 

"I  had  rather  you  did  n't,"  said  Louise. 

"Why?"  asked  Collie,  tactlessly. 

Louise  did  not  answer,  and  Collie  strode  off 
feeling  angry  with  himself  and  more  than  ever 
determined  to  risk  breaking  his  neck  to  win  the 
outlaw. 

Boyar,  the  Moonstone  pony,  ran  second  in  the 
finals.  The  buckskin  of  the  Mexicans  won  first 
place.  Collie  collected  his  winnings  indifferently. 
He  grew  ashamed  of  himself,  realizing  that  a 
foolish  and  unwarrantable  jealousy  had  led  him 
into  a  species  of  disloyalty.  He  was  a  Moon 
stone  rider.  He  had  bet  against  the  Moonstone 
pony,  and  her  pony.  He  was  about  to  ask  one  of 
the  other  boys  to  see  to  the  horses  when  a  tumult 
in  the  corrals  drew  his  attention.  He  strolled 
over  to  the  crowd,  finding  a  place  for  himself  on 
the  corral  bars. 

Mat  Gleason,  superintendent  of  the  Oro 
Ranch,  loafed,  his  back  against  a  post.  Two  men 
with  ropes  were  following  the  roan  pony  round 
the  corral.  Presently  a  riata  flipped  out  and  fell. 
Inch  by  inch  the  outlaw  was  worked  to  the  snub- 
bing-post.  One  of  the  Oro  riders  seized  the  pony's 
ear  in  his  teeth  and,  flinging  his  legs  round  her 
neck,  hung,  weighing  her  head  down.  There  was 
the  flash  of  teeth,  a  grunting  tug  at  the  cinchas,  a 
cloud  of  dust,  and  Jasper  Lane,  foreman  of  the 

238 


The  Yuma  Colt 

Oro  outfit,  was  in  the  saddle.  The  cloud  of  dust, 
following  the  roan  pony,  grew  denser.  Above  the 
dun  cloud  a  sombrero  swung  to  and  fro  fanning 
the  outlaw's  ears.  Jasper  Lane  had  essayed  to 
ride  the  Yuma  colt  once  before.  His  broken 
shoulder  had  set  nicely,  in  fact,  better  than  Bull 
O'Toole's  leg  which  had  been  broken  when  the 
outlaw  fell  on  him.  Billy  Squires,  a  young  Mon 
tana  puncher  working  for  the  Oro  people,  still 
carried  his  arm  in  a  sling.  All  in  all,  the  assem 
bled  company,  as  Brand  Williams  mildly  put  it, 
"were  beginning  to  take  notice  of  that  copper- 
colored  she-son  of  a  cyclone." 

Jasper  Lane  plied  spurs  and  quirt.  The  visit 
ing  cowmen  shrilled  their  delight.  The  pony  was 
broncho  from  the  end  of  her  long,  switching  tail 
to  the  tip  of  her  pink  muzzle. 

Following  a  quick  tattoo  of  hoofs  on  the 
baked  earth  came  a  flash  like  the  trout's  leap 
for  the  fly  —  a  curving  plunge  —  the  sound  as 
of  a  breaking  willow  branch,  and  then  palpitat 
ing  silence. 

The  dun  cloud  of  dust  settled,  disclosing  the 
foam-flecked,  sweat-blackened  colt,  oddly  beau 
tiful  in  her  poised  immobility.  Near  her  lay 
Jasper  Lane,  face  downward.  The  pony  sniffed 
at  his  crumpled  sombrero. 

"That  horse  is  plumb  gentle,"  said  Collie. 
"Look  at  her!" 

239 


Overland  Red 

"Crazy  with  the  heat,"  commented  Billy 
Dime,  jerking  his  thumb  toward  Collie. 

Tall,  slim,  slow  of  movement,  Collie  slipped 
from  the  corral  bars  and  secured  the  dangling 
reins.  Across  the  utter  silence  came  the  whistle 
of  a  viewless  hawk.  The  cowmen  awakened  from 
their  momentary  apathy.  Two  of  them  carried 
Jasper  Lane  toward  the  ranch-house.  Some  one 
laughed. 

Gleason,  the  superintendent,  gazed  at  the  out 
law  pony  and  fingered  his  belt.  "That's  the 
fourth!"  he  said  slowly  and  distinctly.  "She 
ain't  worth  it." 

"The  fourth  Oro  rider,"  said  a  voice.  "You 
ain't  countin'  any  Moonstone  riders." 

"Ain't  seen  any  to  count,"  retorted  Gleason, 
and  there  was  a  general  laugh. 

Strangely  enough,  the  outlaw  pony  followed 
Collie  quietly  as  he  led  her  toward  Gleason* 
"The  boys  say  there's  a  bet  up  that  nobody  can 
stick  on  her  two  minutes.  She's  the  bet.  Is  that 
right?"  said  Collie. 

"What  you  goin'  to  do?  "  queried  Gleason,  and 
some  of  the  Oro  boys  laughed. 

"I  don't  know  yet,"  said  Collie.  "Maybe  I'll 
take  her  back  to  the  Moonstone  with  me." 

Miguel  of  the  Moonstone  removed  his  som 
brero  and  gravely  passed  it.  "Flowers  for  the 
Collie  kid,"  he  said  solemnly. 

240 


The  Yuma  Colt 

Collie,  grave,  alert,  a  little  white  beneath  his 
tan,  called  for  Williams  to  hold  the  pony.  Then 
the  younger  man,  talking  to  her  meanwhile, 
slipped  off  the  bridle  and  adjusted  a  hackamore 
in  its  place.  He  tightened  the  cinchas.  The  men 
had  ceased  joking.  Evidently  the  kid  meant  busi 
ness.  Next  he  removed  his  spurs  and  flung  them,, 
with  his  quirt,  in  a  corner. 

"Just  defending  yourself,  eh,  Yuma  girl?"  he 
said.  "They  cut  all  the  sense  out  of  you  with  a 
horse-killin'  bit  and  rip  you  with  the  spurs,  and 
expect  you  to  behave." 

"  He  '11  be  teachin'  her  to  say  her  prayers  next," 
observed  Bud  Light.  "  He 's  gettin'  a  spell  on  her 


now." 


"He'll  need  all  his  for  himself,"  said  Pars 
Long. 

The  pony,  still  nervously  resenting  the  mem 
ory  of  the  mouth-crushing  spade-bit,  and  the 
tearing  rowels,  flinched  and  sidled  away  as  Collie 
tried  to  mount.  Her  glossy  ears  were  flattened 
and  the  rims  of  her  eyes  showed  white. 

"Jump!"  whispered  Williams.  "And  don't 
rough  her.  Mebby  you'll  win  out." 

And  even  as  Collie's  hand  touched  the  saddle- 
horn,  Williams  sprang  back  and  climbed  the 
corral  bars. 

With  a  leap  the  Moonstone  rider  was  in  the 
saddle.  The  pony  shook  her  head  as  he  reined 

£41 


Overland  Red 

her  round  toward  the  corral  gate.  The  men 
stared.  Gleason  swore.  Billy  Dime  began  to 
croon  a  range  ditty  about  "Picking  little  Posies 
on  the  Golden  Shore."  The  roan's  sleek,  sweating 
sides  quivered. 

"Here's  where  she  goes  to  it,"  said  Williams. 

"Whoop!  Let  'er  buck!"  shouted  the  crowd. 

Rebellion  swelled  in  the  pony's  rippling  mus 
cles.  She  waited,  fore  feet  braced,  for  the  first 
sting  of  the  quirt,  the  first  rip  of  the  spurs,  to 
turn  herself  into  a  hellish  thing  of  plunging 
destruction. 

Collie,  leaning  forward,  patted  her  neck. 
"Come  on,  sis.  Come  on,  Yuma  girl.  You're 
just  a  little  hummingbird.  You  ain't  a  real 
horse." 

With  a  leap  the  pony  reared.  Still  there  came 
no  sting  of  spur  or  quirt.  She  dropped  to  her 
feet.  Collie  had  cleverly  consumed  a  minute  of 
the  allotted  time. 

"One  minute!"  called  Williams,  holding  the 
watch. 

"Why,  that  ain't  ridin',"  grumbled  an  Oro 
man. 

"See  you  later,"  said  Williams,  and  several  of 
his  companions  looked  at  him  strangely.  The 
foreman's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  watch. 

Collie  had  also  heard,  and  he  dug  his  unspurred 
heels  into  the  pony's  sides.  She  leaped  straight 

242 


The  Yuma  Colt 

for  the  corral  gate  and  freedom.  With  a  patter  of 
hoofs,  stiff-legged,  she  jolted  toward  the  plain. 
The  men  dropped  from  the  bars  and  ran  toward 
the  gate,  all,  except  Williams,  who  turned,  blink 
ing  in  the  sun,  his  watch  in  his  hand. 

A  few  short  jumps,  a  fish-like  swirl  sideways, 
and  still  Collie  held  his  seat.  He  eased  the  hacka- 
more  a  little.  He  was  breathing  hard.  The  horse 
took  up  the  slack  with  a  vicious  plunge,  head 
downward.  The  boy's  face  grew  white.  He  felt 
something  warm  trickling  down  his  mouth  and 
chin.  He  threw  back  his  head  and  gripped  with 
his  knees. 

"They're  off!"  halloed  a  puncher. 

"Only  one  of  'em  —  so  far,"  said  Williams. 
"One  minute  and  thirty  seconds." 

Then,  like  a  bolt  of  copper  light,  the  pony  shot 
forward  at  a  run. 

On  the  ranch-house  veranda  sat  Walter  Stone 
conversing  with  his  host,  where  several  girls, 
bright-faced  and  gowned  in  cool  white,  were 
talking  and  laughing. 

The  pony  headed  straight  for  the  veranda. 
The  laughing  group  jumped  to  their  feet.  Collie, 
using  both  hands,  swung  the  hackamore  across 
the  outlaw's  neck  and  tugged. 

She  stopped  with  a  jolt  that  all  but  unseated 
him.  Walter  Stone  rose.  "It's  one  of  my  boys," 
be  said.  And  he  noticed  that  a  little  stream  of 

243 


Overland  Red 

red  was  trickling  from  Collie's  mouth  and 
nostrils. 

His  head  was  snapped  back  and  then  forward 
at  every  plunge.  Still  he  gripped  the  saddle  with 
rigid  knees.  The  outlaw  bucked  again,  and  flung 
herself  viciously  sideways,  turning  completely 
round.  Collie  pitched  drunkenly  as  the  horse 
came  down  again  and  again.  His  eyes  were 
blurred  and  his  brain  grew  numb.  Faintly  he 
heard  Brand  Williams  cry,  "Two  minutes! 
Moonstone  wins ! "  Then  came  a  cheer.  His  grip 
ping  knees  relaxed.  He  reeled  and  all  around  him 
the  air  grew  streaked  with  slivers  of  piercing  fire. 
He  pitched  headforemost  at  the  feet  of  the  group 
on  the  veranda. 

In  a  flash  Louise  Lacharme  was  beside  him, 
kneeling  and  supporting  his  head.  "Water! "  she 
cried,  wiping  his  face  with  her  handkerchief. 

Boot-heels  gritted  on  the  parched  earth  and 
spurs  jingled  as  the  men  came  running. 

The  pony,  with  hackamore  dangling,  raced 
across  the  plain  toward  the  hills. 

"This '11  do  jest  as  well,"  said  Williams,  pour 
ing  a  mouthful  of  whiskey  between  Collie's  lips. 
Then  the  taciturn  foreman  lifted  the  youth  to 
his  feet.  Collie  dragged  along,  stepping  shakily,, 
"Dam'  little  fool!"  said  Williams  affectionately. 
"You  ain't  satisfied  to  get  killed  where  you  be 
long,  but  you  got  to  go  and  splatter  yourself  all 

244 


The  Yuma  Colt 

over  the  front  yard  in  front  of  the  ladies.  You 
with  your  bloody  nose  and  your  face  shot  plumb 
full  of  gravel.  If  you  knowed  how  you  looked 
when  she  piled  you  —  " 

"I  know  how  she  looked,"  said  Collie.  "That's 
good  enough  for  me.  Did  I  make  it?" 

"The  bronc'  is  yours,"  said  Williams.  "Bud 
and  Miguel  just  rode  out  after  her." 

Then  Williams  did  an  unaccountable  thing. 
He  hunted  among  the  crowd  till  he  found  the 
man  who  had  said,  "Why,  that  ain't  ridin'."  He 
asked  the  man  quietly  if  he  had  made  such  a  re 
mark.  The  other  replied  that  he  had.  Then  Wil 
liams  promptly  knocked  him  down,  with  all  the 
wiry  strength  of  his  six  feet  of  bone  and  muscle. 
"Take  that  home  and  look  at  it,"  he  remarked, 
walking  away. 

Through  the  dusk  of  the  evening  the  Moon 
stone  boys  jingled  homeward,  the  horses  climb 
ing  the  trail  briskly.  Two  of  them  worked  the 
outlaw  up  the  hill,  each  with  a  rope  on  her  and 
each  exceedingly  busy.  Collie  was  too  stiff  and 
sore  to  help  them. 

Miguel,  hilarious  in  that  he  had  ridden  Boyar 
to  second  place,  and  so  upheld  the  Moonstone 
honor,  sang  many  strange  and  wonderful  songs 
and  baited  Collie  between-whiles.  Proud  of  their 
companion's  conquest  of  the  outlaw  colt,  the 
Moonstone  boys  made  light  of  it  proportionately. 

9A5 


Overland  Red 

"Did  you  see  him  reclinin'  on  that  Yuma 
grasshopper/'  said  Bud  Light,  "and  pertendin* 
he  was  ridin'  a  boss?" 

"And  then,"  added  Billy  Dime,  "he  gets  so 
het  up  and  proud  that  he  rides  right  over  to  the 
ladies,  and  '  flop '  he  goes  like  swattin'  a  frog  with 
a  shingle.  He  rides  about  five  rods  on  the  cayuse 
and  then  five  more  on  his  map.  Collie's  sure 
tough.  How's  your  mug,  kid?" 

"It  never  felt  so  bad  as  yours  looks  naturally," 
responded  Collie,  puffing  at  a  cigarette  with 
swollen  lips.  "But  I  ain't  jealous." 

"Now,  ain't  you?"  queried  Williams,  who  had 
ridden  silently  beside  him.  "Well,  now,  I  was 
plumb  mistook!  I  kind  of  thought  you  was." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

SILENT   SAUNDERS   SPEAKS 

MEANWHILE  Collie  kept  a  vigilant  eye  on 
Silent  Saunders.  The  other,  somewhat 
sullenly  but  efficiently,  attended  to  his  work. 
Collie's  vigilance  was  rewarded  unexpectedly  and 
rather  disagreeably. 

One  day,  as  he  stood  stroking  Black  Boyar's 
neck,  he  happened  to  glance  across  the  yard. 
Saunders  was  saddling  one  of  the  horses  in  the 
corral.  Louise,  astride  Boyar,  spoke  to  Collie  of 
some  detail  of  the  ranch  work,  purposely  pro 
longing  the  conversation.  Something  of  the 
Collie  of  the  Oro  barbecue  had  vanished.  In  its 
stead  was  an  inexplicable  but  positive  quality  of 
masterfulness,  apparent  in  poise  and  manner. 

Louise,  because  she  knew  him  so  well,  was  puz 
zled  and  curious.  She  could  not  account  for  the 
change.  She  was  frankly  interested  in  him  in 
spite  of,  or  perhaps  because  of,  his  early  misfor 
tunes.  Instinctively  she  felt  that  he  had  gained  a 
moral  confidence  in  himself.  His  physical  excel 
lence  and  ability  had  always  been  manifest.  This 
morning,  his  grave,  dark  eyes,  upturned  to  her 
face  as  he  caressed  Boyar,  were  disconcertingly 

247 


Overland  Red 

straightforward.  He  seemed  to  be  drinking  his 
fill  of  her  beauty.  His  quick  smile,  still  boyish, 
and  altogether  irresistible,  flashed  as  she  spoke 
humorously  of  his  conquest  of  the  outlaw  colt 
Yuma. 

"I  learned  more  —  ridin'  that  cay  use  for  two 
minutes  —  than  I  ever  expect  to  learn  again  in 
that  time." 

Remembering  that  she  had  been  first  to  reach 
him  when  he  was  thrown,  the  fresh  bloom  of  her 
cheeks  deepened.  Her  eyelids  drooped  for  an  in 
stant.  "One  can  learn  a  great  deal  quickly, 
sometimes,"  she  said.  Then  added,  for  he  had 
smiled  again,  —  "About  horses." 

"And  folks."  He  spoke  quietly  and  lifted  her 
gauntleted  hand,  touching  it  lightly  with  his 
lips.  So  swift,  so  unexpected  had  been  his  hom 
age  that  she  did  not  realize  it  until  it  was  irre 
vocably  paid. 

"Why,  Collie!" 

"Because  you  was  n't  ashamed  to  help  a  guy 
in  front  of  the  others." 

"Please  don't  say  'guy.'  And  why  should  I  be 
ashamed  to  help  any  of  our  boys?"  she  said5 
laughing.  She  had  quite  recovered  herself. 

"Course  you  would  n't  be.  But  this  is  a  kind 
of  'good-bye,'  too.  I  was  going  to  ask  you  to  mail 
this  letter  to  Overland  Red.  I  told  him  in  it  that 
I  was  coming." 

248 


Silent  Saunders  Speaks 

"We  are  sorry  that  you  are  leaving,"  said 
Louise.  "Uncle  Walter  said  you  had  spoken  to 
him." 

"  It  is  n't  the  money.  I  could  wait.  But  I  don't 
feel  like  taking  all  that  money  and  not  doing  any 
thing  for  it.  I  guess  Red  needs  me,  too.  Brand 
says  I  'm  a  fool  to  quit  here  now.  Mebby  I  am.  I 
like  it  here;  the  work  and  everything." 

Saunders,  watching  them,  saw  Collie  give 
Louise  a  letter.  He  saw  her  tuck  it  in  her  waist 
and  rein  Boyar  round  toward  the  gate. 

As  Collie  came  toward  the  corrals  he  noticed 
that  Saunders  had  saddled  the  pinto  Rally.  He 
was  a  little  surprised.  Rally  was  Walter  Stone's 
favorite  saddle-horse  and  used  by  none  but  him. 
He  knew  his  employer  was  absent.  Perhaps 
Saunders  had  instructions  to  bring  Rally  to  the 
station. 

Collie  paid  no  further  attention  to  Saunders 
until  the  latter  came  from  his  quarters  with  a 
coat  and  a  blanket-roll  which  he  tied  to  the  sad 
dle.  Then  Collie  became  interested.  He  left  the 
road  and  climbed  the  hill  back  of  the  corrals.  He 
watched  Saunders  astride  the  pinto  as  he  opened 
the  gate  and  spurred  through  without  closing  it. 
That  was  a  little  unusual. 

"I  feel  almost  like  taking  a  cay  use  and  follow 
ing  him,"  muttered  Collie.  "But,  no.  What  for, 
anyway?" 

249 


Overland  Red 

On  a  rise  far  below  was  Black  Boyar,  loping 
along  easily.  Collie  saw  him  stop  and  turn  into 
the  Old  Meadow  Trail.  He  watched  for  Saunders 
to  appear  on  the  road  below  the  ranch.  Pre 
sently  out  from  the  shoulder  of  a  hill  leaped 
Rally.  Saunders  was  plying  quirt  and  spur.  The 
pinto  was  doing  his  best. 

"Something's  wrong.  I'll  just  take  a  chance." 
And  Collie  ran  to  the  corral  and  roped  the  Yuma 
colt.  He  saddled  her,  led  her  a  few  steps  that  she 
might  become  used  to  the  feel  of  the  cinchas,  and 
then  mounted.  He  turned  the  pony  up  the  hill 
and  sat  watching  the  pinto  on  the  road  below. 
He  saw  Saunders  draw  rein  and  dismount,  appar 
ently  searching  the  road  for  something.  Then  he 
saw  him  mount  quickly  and  disappear  on  the  Old 
Meadow  Trail. 

Collie  whirled  the  pony  round  and  down  the 
hill.  Through  the  gateway  he  thundered.  The 
steel-sinewed  flanks  stiffened  and  relaxed 
rhythmically  as  the  hillside  flew  past.  The 
Yuma  colt,  half-wild,  ran  with  great  leaps  that 
ate  into  space.  They  swept  through  the  first 
ford.  A  thin  sheet  of  water  spread  on  either  side 
of  them.  The  outlaw  fought  the  curb  all  the  way 
up  the  hill  beyond.  Pebbles  clattered  from  her 
hoofs  and  spun  skyward  as  she  raced  along  the 
level  of  the  hilltop. 

Down  the  next  grade  the  pony  swung,  taking 
250 


Silent  Saunders  Speaks 

the  turns  with  short  leaps.  On  the  crest  Collie 
checked  her.  The  road  beyond,  clear  to  the  val 
ley,  was  empty. 

He  examined  the  tracks  entering  the  Old 
Meadow  Trail.  He  had  not  been  mistaken. 
Saunders  had  ridden  in.  Mounting,  Collie 
spurred  through  the  greasewood,  trusting  to  the 
pony's  natural  activity  and  sure-footedness. 

Louise,  sitting  on  the  dream-rock  in  the  old 
meadow,  gazed  out  across  the  valley.  Black 
Boyar  stood  near  with  trailing  bridle-reins. 

Despite  herself  the  girl  kept  recalling  Collie's 
face  as  he  had  talked  with  her  at  the  ranch.  Ad 
miration  she  had  known  before  and  many  times 
—  adoration  never,  until  that  morning. 

For  a  long  time  she  dreamed.  The  shadows  of 
the  greasewood  lengthened.  The  air  grew  cooler. 
Louise  ended  her  soliloquy  by  saying  aloud: 
"He's  a  nice  boy,  though.  I  do  hope  he  will  keep 
as  he  is." 

Boyar,  lifting  his  head,  nickered  and  was  an 
swered  by  Rally,  entering  the  meadow.  Silent 
Saunders  rode  up  hurriedly. 

"Why,  Saunders,  —  what  is  it?  That's  Rally! 
Were  you  going  to  meet  Uncle  Walter?" 

"No,  Miss.  I'm  in  a  hurry.  Just  hand  over 
that  letter  that  young  Collie  give  to  you  at  the 
ranch.  I  want  it.  I  mean  business." 

251 


Overland  Red 

"You  want  the  letter?  What  do  you  mean? 
What  right  have  you  — " 

"No  right.  Only  I  want  it.  I  don't  want  to 
make  trouble." 

"You!  A  Western  man,  and  speak  that  way  to 
a  woman!  Saunders,  I'm  ashamed  to  think  you 
ever  worked  for  us." 

"Oh,  I  know  you  got  nerve.  But  I'm  in  a 
hurry.  Hand  it  over.  Then  you  can  call  me  any 
thing  you  like." 

"I  shall  not  hand  it  over." 

"All  right.   I  got  to  have  it." 

The  girl,  her  gray  eyes  blazing  with  indigna 
tion,  backed  away  as  he  strode  toward  her. 
"You'd  dare,  would  you?"  And  as  Saunders 
laughed  she  cut  him  across  the  face  with  her  quirt. 

His  face,  streaked  with  the  red  welt  of  the  raw 
hide,  grew  white  as  he  controlled  his  anger.  He 
leaped  at  her  and  had  his  hands  on  her  when  she 
struck  him  again  with  all  her  strength.  He  stag 
gered  back,  his  hand  to  his  eyes. 

A  wild  rush  of  hoofs,  a  shock,  a  crash,  and  he 
was  beneath  the  plunging  feet  of  the  Yuma  colt. 
The  pony  flashed  past,  her  head  jerking  up. 
Louise  saw  Collie  leap  to  the  ground  and  come 
running  back. 

Saunders,  rolling  to  his  side,  reached  for  his 
holster,  when  he  saw  that  in  Collie's  hand  which 
precluded  further  argument. 

252 


Silent  Saunders  Speaks 

"Don't  get  up!"  said  Collie  quietly.  "I  never 
killed  a  man  —  but  I  'm  going  to,  quick,  if  you 
lift  a  finger." 

Saunders  kept  still.  Collie  stepped  round  be 
hind  him.  "Now,  get  up,  slow,"  he  commanded. 

When  Saunders  was  on  his  feet,  Collie  reached 
forward  and  secured  his  gun. 

"I'll  send  your  check  to  the  store,"  said 
Louise,  addressing  Saunders.  "I  shall  tell  Mr. 
Stone  that  I  discharged  you.  I  don't  believe  I 
had  better  tell  the  men  about  this." 

"Beat  it,  Saunders,"  said  Collie,  laughing. 
"  You  are  leaving  here  afoot,  which  suits  me  fine. 
Red  would  be  plumb  happy  to  know  it." 

"Red's  goin'  to  walk  into  my  lead  some  of 
these  days." 

"That's  some  day.  This  is  to-day,"  said 
Collie. 

Saunders,  turning,  gazed  covetously  at  the 
pinto  Rally.  Collie  saw,  and  smiled.  "I  missed 
twice.  The  third  trick  is  goin'  to  be  mine.  Don't 
you  forget  that,  Mister  Kid,"  said  Saunders. 

"Oh,  you  here  yet?"  said  Collie;  and  he  was 
not  a  little  gratified  to  notice  that  Saunders 
limped  as  he  struck  off  down  the  trail. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

"LIKE  SUNSHINE" 

LOUISE  drew  off  her  gauntlets  and  tossed 
them  on  the  rock.    Collie  saw  the  print  of 
Saunders's  fingers  on  her  wrist  and  forearm.   "I 
ought  to  'a'  made  him  kneel  down  and  ask  you  to 
let  him  live!"  he  said. 

"I  was  afraid  —  at  first.  Then  I  was  just 
angry.  It  was  sickening  to  see  the  marks  grow 
red  and  swell  on  his  face.  I  hit  him  as  hard  as  I 
could,  but  I'm  not  sorry." 

"Sorry?"  growled  Collie.  "He  takes  your 
brand  with  him.  He  did  n't  get  the  letter.  I  got 
to  thank  you  a  whole  lot  for  that." 

"But  how  did  he  know  I  had  it?  What  did  he 
want  with  the  letter?" 

"He  saw  me  give  it  to  you.  He's  one  of  the 
bunch,  the  Mojave  bunch  that's  been  trailing 
Red  all  over  the  country.  When  Red  disap 
peared  up  in  those  desert  hills,  I  reckon  Saun- 
ders  must  have  got  hold  of  a  paper  and  read 
about  the  get-away  here  at  the  Moonstone.  He 
just  naturally  came  over  here  and  got  a  job  to  see 
if  he  could  n't  trace  Red." 

254 


Like  Sunshine 

"You  are  thinking  of  joining  Mr.  Summers  at 
the  claim?" 

"Yes.  The  Eastern  folks  are  gone  now.  I  hate 
to  go.  But  I  got  to  get  busy  and  make  some 
money.  A  fellow  has  n't  much  of  a  show  without 
money  these  days." 

Louise  was  silent.  She  sat  gazing  across  the 
valley. 

Collie  approached  her  hesitatingly.  "  I  just  got 
to  say  it  —  after  all  that 's  happened.  Seems  that 
I  could,  now." 

Louise  paled  and  flushed.  "Oh,  Collie!"  she 
cried  entreatingly.  "We  have  been  such  good 
friends.  Please  don't  spoil  it  all!" 

"I  know  I  am  a  fool,"  he  said,  "or  I  was  going 
to  be.  But  please  to  take  Boyar  and  go.  I'll 
bring  Rally.  I  was  wrong  to  think  you  would 
listen  a  little." 

But  Louise  remained  sitting  upon  the  rock  as 
though  she  had  not  heard  him.  Slowly  he 
stepped  toward  her,  his  spurs  jingling  musically. 
He  caught  up  one  of  her  gloves  and  turned  it 
over  and  over  in  his  fingers  with  a  kind  of 
clumsy  reverence.  "It's  mighty  little  —  and 
there 's  the  shape  of  your  hand  in  it,  just  like  it 
bends  when  you  hold  the  reins.  It  seems  like  a 
thing  almost  too  good  for  me  to  touch,  because 
it  means  you.  I  know  you  won't  laugh  at  me, 
either." 

255 


Overland  Red 

Louise  turned  toward  him.  "No.  I  under 
stand,"  she  said. 

"Here  was  where  Red  and  I  first  saw  you  to 
know  who  you  was.  I  used  to  hate  folks  that 
wore  good  clothes.  I  thought  they  was  all  the 
same,  you  and  all  that  kind.  But,  no,  it  ain't  so. 
You  looked  back  once,  when  you  were  riding 
away  from  the  jail  that  time.  I  was  going  to  look 
for  Red  and  not  go  to  work  at  the  Moonstone. 
I  saw  you  look  back.  That  settled  it.  I  was  proud 
to  think  you  cared  even  anything  for  a  tramp.  I 
was  mighty  lonesome  then.  Since,  I  got  to  think 
ing  I'd  be  somebody  some  day.  But  I  can  see 
where  I  stand.  I'm  a  puncher,  working  for  the 
Moonstone.  You  kind  of  liked  me  because  I  had 
hard  luck  when  I  was  a  kid.  But  that  made  me 
love  y  ou.  It  ain't  wrong,  I  guess,  to  love  some 
thing  you  can't  ever  reach  up  to.  It  ain't  wrong 
to  keep  on  loving,  only  it's  awful  lonesome  not 
to  ever  tell  you  about  it." 

"I'm  sorry,  Collie,"  said  Louise  gently. 

"Please  don't  you  be  sorry.  Why,  I'm  glad 2 
Maybe  you  don't  think  it  is  the  best  thing  in  the 
world  to  love  a  girl.  I  ain't  asking  anything  but 
to  just  go  on  loving  you.  Seems  like  a  man  wants 
the  girl  he  loves  to  know  it,  even  if  that  is  just  all. 
You  said  I  love  horses.  I  do.  But  loving  you 
started  me  loving  horses.  Red  said  once  that  I 
was  just  living  like  what  I  thought  you  wanted 

256 


Like  Sunshine 

me  to  be.  Red 's  wise  when  he  takes  his  time  to 
it.  But  now  I  'm  living  the  way  I  think  I  want  to. 
I  won't  ask  you  to  say  you  care.  I  guess  you 
don't  —  that  way.  But  if  I  ever  get  rich  — 
then—" 

"Collie,  you  must  not  think  I  am  different 
from  any  other  girl.  I'm  just  as  selfish  and  stub 
born  as  I  can  be.  I  almost  feel  ashamed  to  have 
you  think  of  me  as  you  do.  Let's  be  sensible 
about  it.  You  know  I  like  you.  I'm  glad  you 
care  —  for  —  what  you  think  I  am." 

"That's  it.  You  are  always  so  kind  to  a  fellow 
that  it  makes  me  feel  mean  to  speak  like  I  have. 
You  listened  —  and  I  am  pretty  glad  of  that." 

He  turned  and  caught  Boyar's  bridle.  Mount 
ing  he  caught  up  Yuma  and  Rally.  Slowly  Collie 
and  the  girl  rode  the  trail  to  the  level  of  the  sum 
mit.  Slowly  they  dropped  down  the  descent  into 
Moonstone  Canon.  The  letter,  Overland  Red, 
Silent  Saunders,  were  forgotten.  Side  by  side 
plodded  the  pony  Yuma  and  Black  Boyar.  Rally 
followed.  The  trees  on  the  western  edge  of  the 
canon  threw  long,  shadowy  bars  of  dusk  across 
the  road.  Quail  called  from  the  hillside.  Other 
quail  answered  plaintively  from  a  distance.  Alter 
nate  warmth  and  coolness  swam  in  the  air  and 
touched  the  riders'  faces. 

At  a  bend  in  the  road  the  ponies  crowded 
together.  Collie's  hand  accidentally  brushed 

257 


Overland  Red 

against  the  girl's  and  she  drew  away.  He  glanced 
up  quickly.  She  was  gazing  straight  ahead  at  the 
distant  peaks.  He  felt  strangely  pleased  that  she 
had  drawn  away  from  him  when  his  hand  touched 
hers.  Some  instinct  told  him  that  their  old  friend 
ship  had  given  place  to  something  else  —  some 
thing  as  yet  too  vague  to  describe.  She  was  not 
angry  with  him,  he  knew.  Her  face  was  troubled. 
He  gazed  at  her  as  they  rode  and  his  heart  yearned 
for  her  tenderly.  Life  had  suddenly  assumed  a 
tensity  that  silenced  them.  The  little  lizards  of 
the  stones  scurried  away  from  either  side  of  the 
road.  One  after  another,  with  sprightly  steps,  a 
covey  of  mountain  quail  crossed  the  road  before 
them,  leaving  little  starlike  tracks  in  the  dust. 
Though  homeward  bound  the  ponies  plodded 
with  lowered  heads.  Moonstone  Canon,  always 
wonderful  in  its  wild,  rugged  beauty,  seemed  as  a 
place  of  dreams,  only  real  as  it  echoed  the  tread 
of  the  ponies.  The  canon  stream  chattered,  mur 
mured,  quarreled  round  a  rock-strewn  bend, 
laughed  at  itself,  and  passed,  singing  a  cool-voiced 
melody. 

They  rode  through  a  vale  of  enchantment, 
only  known  to  Youth  and  Love.  Her  gray  eyes 
were  misty  and  troubled.  His  eyes  were  heavy 
with  unuttered  longing.  His  heart  pounded  until 
it  almost  choked  him.  He  bit  his  lips  that  he 
might  keep  silent. 

258 


Like  Sunshine 

The  glint  of  the  slanting  sunlight  on  her  hair, 
the  turn  of  her  wrist  as  she  held  the  reins,  her 
apparent  unconsciousness  of  all  outward  things 
enthralled  him.  A  spell  hung  round  him  like  a 
mist,  blinding  and  baffling  all  clearer  thought. 
And  because  Louise  knew  his  heart,  knew  that  his 
homage  was  not  of  books,  but  of  his  very  self,  she 
lingered  in  the  dream  whose  thread  she  might 
have  snapped  with  a  word,  a  gesture. 

Generously  the  girl  blamed  herself  that  she 
had  been  the  one  to  cause  him  sorrow.  She  could 
not  give  herself  to  him,  be  his  wife  as  she  knew 
he  wished  her  to  be.  Yet  she  liked  him  more 
than  she  cared  to  admit.  He  had  fought  for  her 
once  and  taken  his  punishment  with  a  grin.  She 
felt  joy  in  his  homage,  and  yet  she  felt  humility. 
In  what  way,  she  asked  herself,  was  she  better, 
cleaner  of  heart,  kinder  or  cleverer  than  Collie? 
Why  should  people  make  distinctions  as  to  birth, 
or  breeding,  or  wealth,  when  character  and 
physical  excellence  meant  so  much  more? 

"Collie!"  she  whispered,  and  the  touch  of  her 
fingers  on  his  arm  was  as  the  touch  of  fire,  — 
"Collie!" 

She  drew  one  of  her  little  gray  gauntlets  from 
her  belt.  "Here,"  she  said,  and  the  word  was  a 
caress. 

But  he  put  the  proffered  token  away  from  him 
with  a  trembling  hand.  "Don't!"  he  cried.  "I 

259 


Overland  Red 

tried  not  to  want  you!  I  did  try!  This  morning 
—  before  I  told  you  —  I  could  have  knelt  and 
prayed  to  your  glove.  But  now,  Louise,  Louise 
Lacharme,  I  can't.  That  glove  would  burn  me 
and  drive  me  wild  to  come  back  to  you." 

" To  come  back  to  you  .  .  .  ?"  The  words  sung 
themselves  through  her  consciousness.  "Come 
back  to  you  .  .  .  '  He  was  going  away.  "You 
care  so  much?  "  she  asked.  There  was  a  new  light 
in  her  eyes.  Her  face  was  almost  colorless.  So 
she  had  looked  when  Saunders  threatened  her. 
She  swayed  in  the  saddle.  Collie's  arm  was  about 
her.  She  raised  one  arm  and  flung  it  round  his 
neck,  drawing  his  face  down  to  her  trembling  lips. 
Then  she  drew  away,  her  face  burning. 

Across  the  end  of  the  canon  a  vagrant  sun 
beam  ran  like  a  bridge  of  faery  gold.  It  pelted  the 
gray  wall  with  a  million  particles  of  mellow  fire. 
It  flickered,  flashed  anew,  and  faded.  The  ponies 
drew  apart.  The  colt  Yuma  grew  restless. 

"Good-bye,"  murmured  Louise. 

"Like  the  sunshine,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the 
cliff. 

"It  is  gone,"  she  whispered,  shivering  a  little  as 
the  shadows  drew  down. 

"It  will  shine  again,"  he  said,  smiling. 

Without  a  word  she  touched  Black  Boyar  with 
the  spurs.  A  stone  clattered  down  as  he  leaped 
forward,  and  she  was  gone. 

260 


Like  Sunshine 

Collie  curbed  the  colt  Yuma,  who  would  have 
followed.  "No,  little  hummingbird,"  he  said 
whimsically.  "We  are  n't  so  used  to  heaven  that 
we  can  ride  out  of  it  quite  so  fast." 

Next  morning,  with  blanket  and  slicker  rolled 
behind  his  saddle,  he  rode  down  the  Moonstone 
Canon  Trail.  At  the  foot  of  the  range  he  turned 
eastward,  a  new  world  before  him.  The  far  hills, 
hiding  the  desert  beyond,  bulked  large  and  mys 
terious. 

Louise  had  not  been  present  when  he  bade 
good-bye  to  his  Moonstone  friends. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

IN   THE   SHADOW   OF   THE   HILLS 

THE  afternoon  of  the  third  day  out  from  the 
Moonstone  Ranch,  Collie  picketed  the  roan 
pony  Yuma  near  a  water-hole  in  the  desert.  He 
spread  his  saddle-blankets,  rolled  a  cigarette, 
and  smoked.  Presently  he  rose  and  took  some 
food  from  a  saddle-pocket. 

The  pony,  unused  to  the  desert,  fretted  and 
sniffed  at  the  sagebrush  with  evident  disgust. 
Collie  had  given  her  water,  but  there  was  no 
grazing. 

After  he  had  eaten  he  studied  the  rough  map 
that  Overland  had  given  him.  There,  to  the 
south,  was  the  desert  town.  He  had  passed  that, 
as  directed,  skirting  it  widely.  There  to  the  east 
were  the  hills.  Somewhere  behind  them  was  the 
hidden  canon  and  Overland  Red. 

Stiff  and  tired  from  his  long  ride,  he  stretched 
himself  for  a  short  rest.  He  dozed.  Something 
touched  his  foot.  It  was  the  riata  with  which  he 
had  picketed  the  pony.  He  meant  to  travel  again 
that  night.  He  would  sleep  a  little  while.  The 
horse,  circling  the  picket,  would  be  sure  to  awaken 
him  again. 

262 


In  the  Shadow  of  the  Hills 

He  slept  heavily.  The  Yuma  colt  stood  with 
rounded  nostrils  sniffing  the  night  air.  The  pony 
faced  in  the  direction  of  the  distant  town.  She 
knew  that  another  horse  and  rider  were  coming 
toward  her  through  the  darkness.  They  were  far 
off,  but  coming. 

For  a  long  time  she  stood  stamping  impatiently 
at  intervals.  Finally  she  grew  restive.  The  on 
coming  horse  had  stopped.  That  other  animal, 
the  man,  had  dismounted  and  was  coming  toward 
her  on  foot.  She  could  not  see  through  the  starlit 
blanket  of  night,  but  she  knew. 

The  man-thing  drew  a  little  nearer.  The  pony 
swerved  as  if  about  to  run,  but  hesitated,  ears 
flattened,  curious,  half-belligerent. 

That  afternoon  Silent  Saunders,  riding  along 
the  border  of  the  desert  town,  had  seen  a  strange 
horse  and  rider  far  out  — away  from  the  road  and 
evidently  heading  for  the  water-hole.  Saunders 
rode  into  town,  borrowed  a  pair  of  field-glasses, 
and  rode  out  again.  He  at  once  recognized  the 
roan  pony  as  the  Oro  outlaw,  but  the  rider?  He 
was  not  so  sure.  He  would  investigate. 

The  fact  that  he  saw  no  glimmer  of  fire  as  he 
now  approached  the  water-hole  made  him  doubly 
cautious.  Nearer,  he  crouched  behind  a  bush. 
He  threw  a  pebble  at  the  pony.  She  circled 
the  picket,  awakening  Collie,  who  spoke  to  her 

263 


Overland  Red 

sleepily.  Saunders  crept  back  toward  his  horse. 
He  knew  that  voice.  He  would  track  the  young 
rider  to  the  range  and  beyond  — to  the  gold.  He 
rode  back  to  town  through  the  night,  entered 
the  saloon,  and  beckoned  to  a  belated  lounger. 

Shivering  in  the  morning  starlight,  Collie  arose 
and  saddled  the  pony.  He  rode  in  the  general 
direction  of  the  range.  The  blurred  shadow  of  the 
foothills  seemed  stationary.  His  horse  was  not 
moving  forward  —  simply  walking  a  gigantic 
treadmill  of  black  space  that  revolved  beneath 
him.  The  hills  drew  no  nearer  than  did  the  con- 
.stellations  above  them. 

Suddenly  the  shadows  of  the  hills  pushed  back. 
Almost  instantly  he  faced  the  quick  rise  of  the 
range.  Out  of  the  silence  came  the  slithering  step 
of  some  one  walking  in  the  sand.  The  darkness 
seemed  to  expand. 

Overland  Red  stood  before  him,  silent,  alert, 
anxious.  "You,  Chico?"  he  asked. 

"Sure.  Hello,  Red." 

"Anybody  see  you  come  across  yesterday?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of.  I  kept  away  from  the 
town." 

"Your  boss  shod?" 

"Yes.  All  around.  Why?" 

"Nothin'.  I'm  sufferin'  glad  to  see  you  again. 
When  we  get  on  top  of  the  hills,  you  take  the  left 
trail  and  keep  on  down.  You  can't  miss  the 

264 


In  the  Shadow  of  the  Hills 

canon.  I'll  leave  you  here.  I  got  to  stay  here  a 
spell  to  see  that  no  thin'  else  comes  up  but  the  sun 
this  mornin'." 

"All  right,  Red.  Your  pardner  down  there?" 

"Yep.  Whistle  when  you  get  up  to  the  meadow 
in  the  canon.  Billy '11  be  lookin'  for  you." 

"Any  trouble  lately?" 

"Nope.  But  Billy's  got  a  hunch,  though.  He 
says  he  feels  it  in  the  air." 

At  the  crest  Collie  rode  on  down  the  winding 
trail,  or  rather  way,  for  no  regular  trail  existed. 
At  the  foot  of  the  range  he  turned  to  the  right  and 
entered  the  narrow  canon,  following  the  stream 
until  he  came  to  the  meadow,  where  he  picketed 
the  pony. 

He  continued  on  up  the  canon  on  foot.  When 
he  arrived  at  the  camp,  Overland  was  there  wait 
ing.  Winthrop  and  he  greeted  Collie  cordially. 
"Short  cut,"  explained  Overland,  jerking  his 
thumb  over  his  shoulder.  "  No  hoss  trail,  though. 
Too  steep." 

Faint  dawn  lights  were  shifting  along  the  canon 
walls  as  they  had  breakfast.  As  the  morning  sun 
light  spread  to  their  camp  Collie's  natural  curi 
osity  in  regard  to  Overland's  pardner  was  satis 
fied.  He  saw  a  straight,  slender  figure,  in  flannel 
shirt  and  khaki.  The  gray  eyes  were  peculiarly 
keen  and  humorous.  Winthrop  was  not  a  little 
like  his  sister  Anne  in  poise  and  coloring.  The 

265 


Overland  Red 

hands  were  nervously  slender  and  aristocratic, 
albeit  roughened  and  scarred  by  toil.  There  was 
a  suggestion  of  dash  and  go  about  Winthrop  that 
appealed  to  Collie.  Even  in  repose  the  Easterner 
seemed  to  be  alert.  Undoubtedly  he  would  make 
a  good  companion  in  any  circumstance. 

"There's  spare  blankets  in  the  tent.  Roll  in 
for  a  snooze,  Collie.  Billy  and  me '11  pack  your 
saddle  and  stuff  up  here  later." 

"I  guess  I  will.  You  might  sponge  Yuma's 
back  a  little,  Red.  She's  brought  me  close  to  two 
hundred  miles  in  the  last  three  days." 

"Sure,  Bo!  I'll  brush  her  teeth  and  manicure 
her  toe-nails  if  you  say  the  word.  I  guess  that 
hoss  has  kind  of  made  a  hit  with  you." 

Collie  yawned.  "Mebby.  But  it  isn't  in  it 
with  the  hit  she'll  make  with  you  if  you  try  to 
take  up  her  feet.  She's  half-sister  to  a  shot  of 
dynamite.  I  'm  only  telling  you  so  she  won't  kick 
your  fool  head  off." 

"You  talk  like  most  a  full-size  man,"  said 
Overland. 

Down  at  the  meadow,  Overland  looked  at  the 
colt  and  shook  his  head.  "He  is  correct,"  he  said 
succinctly.  "That  hoss  don't  welcome  handlin5 
worth  a  bean." 

Winthrop's  silence  rather  stirred  Overland's 
sensitive  pride  in  his  horsemanship.  '"Course  I 
broke  and  rode  hundreds  like  her,  down  in  Mex. 

266 


In  the  Shadow  of  the  Hills 

But  then  I  was  paid  for  doin*  it.  It  was  my  busi 
ness  then.  Now,  minin'  and  educatin'  Collie  is 
my  business,  and  a  busted  neck  would  n't  help 
any." 

Winthrop  realized  for  the  first  time  that  Over- 
land's  supreme  interest  in  life  was  Collie's  wel 
fare.  Heretofore  the  paternal  note  had  not  been 
evident.  Winthrop  had  imagined  them  chums, 
friends,  tramps  together.  They  were  more  than 
that.  Overland  considered  Collie  an  adopted  son., 

The  Easterner  glanced  at  Overland's  broad 
shoulders  stooped  beneath  the  weight  of  the  heavy 
stock  saddle.  Something  in  the  man's  humorous 
simplicity,  his  entire  willingness  to  serve  those 
whom  he  liked  and  his  stiff  indifference  to  all 
others,  appealed  to  Winthrop.  So  this  flotsam  of 
the  range,  this  erstwhile  tramp,  this  paradox  of 
coarseness  and  sentiment,  had  an  object  in  life? 
A  laudable  object:  that  of  serving  with  his  sin- 
cerest  effort  the  boy  friend  he  had  picked  up  on 
the  desert,  a  castaway. 

As  they  toiled  up  the  stream  toward  the  camp, 
Winthrop  recalled  their  former  chats  by  the 
night-fire.  Now  he  began  to  see  the  drift  of 
Overland's  then  frequent  references  to  Collie. 
And  there  was  a  girl,  —  mentioned  by  Overland 
almost  reverently,  —  the  Rose  Girl,  Louise  La- 
charme,  of  whom  Anne  Marshall  had  written 
much  in  eulogy  to  him.  And  Winthrop  himself? 

267 


Overland  Red 

His  swift  introspection  left  him  aware  that  of 
them  all  he  alone  seemed  to  lack  a  definite  aim. 
Making  money  —  mining  —  was  still  to  him  a 
game,  interesting  and  healthful,  but  play.  To 
Overland  it  was  life.  Winthrop  saw  himself  as  he 
was.  His  improved  health  scoffed  at  the  idea  of 
becoming  sentimental  about  it.  He  laughed,  and 
Overland,  turning,  regarded  him  with  bushy,  in 
terrogative  brows. 

"Nothing,"  said  Winthrop. 

"Ain't  you  feelin'  good  lately,  Billy?'* 

"I 'mall  right." 

"Glad  of  that.  It's  good  to  forget  you  got 
such  a  thing  as  health  if  you  want  to  keep  it. 
If  you  get  to  lookin'  for  it,  like  as  not  you  '11  find 
it's  gone." 

"I'm  looking  for  something  entirely  different. 
Something  you  have  —  something  that  I  never 
possessed." 

"  I  don't  know  anything  I  got  that  you  have  n't 
'less  it's  that  new  Stetson  I  got  in  Los.  You  can 
have  her,  Billy,  and  welcome.  Your  lid  is  gettin' 
on  the  bum." 

"Not  that,"  laughed  Winthrop.  "Something 
you  keep  under  it." 

"'T  ain't  me  hair.  I'm  plumb  sure  of  that." 

"No." 

"Mebby  you're  jealous  of  some  of  me  high 
brow  ideas?" 

268 


In  the  Shadow  of  the  Hills 

"Add  an  T  and  you  have  it." 

"I-d-e-a-1-s.  Oh,  ideals,  eh?  Never  owned 
none  except  that  little  electric  do-diddle-um  of 
the  Guzzuh  what  makes  the  spark  to  keep  the 
machinery  goin'.  That's  called  the  'Ideal." 

"The  spark  to  keep  the  machinery  going  — 
that's  it,"  said  Winthrop. 

At  the  camp  he  prepared  to  make  his  trip  to 
the  Moonstone  Ranch.  He  read  his  sister's  letter 
over  and  over  again.  Finally  he  sauntered  up  the 
canon  to  where  Overland  was  at  work.  "  I  '11  lend 
a  hand,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  Overland's  ques 
tioning  face.  "I  don't  believe  I'll  go  before  to 
morrow  night.  It  is  hardly  right  to  leave  the 
minute  my  new  pardner  arrives.  I  want  to  talk 
with  him." 

Overland  nodded.  "Guess  you're  right.  It 
won't  hurt  to  keep  in  the  shadow  of  the  hills  for 
a  day  or  two.  Can't  tell  who  might  'a'  spotted 
Collie  ridin'  out  this  way." 

That  afternoon,  toward  evening,  Collie  arose, 
refreshed,  and  eager  to  inspect  the  claim.  He 
could  hear  the  faint  click  of  pick  and  shovel  up 
the  canon.  He  stretched  himself,  drank  from  the 
stream,  and  sauntered  toward  the  meadow.  He 
would  see  to  his  pony  first. 

He  found  the  horse  had  been  picketed  afresh 
by  Overland  when  he  had  come  for  the  saddle. 

269 


Overland  Red 

He  was  returning  toward  camp  when  he  heard  a 
slight  noise  behind  him  —  the  noise  a  man's  boot 
makes  stepping  on  a  pebble  that  turns  beneath 
his  weight. 

Collie  wheeled  quickly,  saw  nothing  unusual, 
and  turned  again  toward  the  camp.  Then  he 
hesitated.  He  would  look  down  the  canon.  He 
realized  that  he  was  unarmed.  Then  he  grew 
ashamed  of  his  hesitancy.  He  picked  his  way 
down  the  stream.  A  buzzard  circled  far  above  the 
cliffs.  The  air  hummed  with  invisible  bees  in  the 
rank  wild  clover.  He  peered  past  the  next  bend. 
A  short  distance  below  stood  a  riderless  horse. 
The  bridle  was  trailing.  For  an  instant  Collie  did 
not  realize  the  significance  of  the  animal  waiting 
patiently  for  its  rider.  Then,  like  the  flash  of  a 
speeding  film,  he  saw  it  all  —  his  pony's  tracks 
up  the  canon  —  the  rider  who  had  undoubtedly 
seen  him  crossing  to  the  water-hole,  and  who  had 
waited  until  daylight  to  follow  the  tracks;  who 
had  dismounted,  and  was  probably  in  ambush 
watching  him.  He  summoned  all  his  reserve 
courage.  Turning  away,  he  remarked,  distinctly, 
naturally,  casually,  "Thought  I  heard  some 
thing.  Must  have  been  the  water." 

He  walked  slowly  back  to  the  notch  in  the 
canon  walls.  Stepping  through  it,  he  continued 
on  up  the  stream.  A  few  paces  beyond  the  notch, 
and  a  face  appeared  in  the  cleft  rock,  watching 

270 


In  the  Shadow  of  the  Hills 

him.  The  watcher  seemed  in  doubt.  Collie's 
action  had  been  natural  enough.  Had  he  seen  the 
horse?  The  hidden  face  grew  crafty.  The  eyes 
grew  cold.  The  watcher  tapped  the  side  of  the 
cliff  with  his  revolver  butt.  The  noise  was  slights 
but  in  that  place  of  sensitive  echoes,  loud  enough 
to  be  heard  a  long  way  up  the  canon.  Then  it 
was  that  Collie  made  a  courageous  but  terrible 
mistake.  He  heard  the  sound,  and  seemed  to 
realize  that  it  was  made  intentionally  —  to  at 
tract  his  attention.  Yet  he  was  not  sure.  He 
kept  on,  ignoring  the  sound.  Had  he  not  sus 
pected  some  one  was  in  the  canon,  to  have 
glanced  back  would  have  been  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world.  The  watcher  realized  this. 
He  knew  that  the  other  had  heard  him  —  sus 
pected  his  presence,  and  was  making  a  daring 
bluff. 

"Got  to  stop  that,"  muttered  the  watcher,  and 
he  raised  his  hand. 

The  imprisoned  report  rolled  and  reechoed  like 
mountain  thunder.  Collie  threw  up  his  arms  and 
lurched  forward. 

Below  in  the  canon  clattered  the  hoofs  of  the 
speeding  horse.  The  rider,  still  holding  his  six- 
gun,  muzzle  up,  glanced  back.  "I  didn't  care 
partic'lar  about  gettin'  him,  but  gettin'  the  kid 
hits  the  red-head  between  the  eyes.  I  guess  I'm 
about  even  now."  And  Silent  Saunders  bolstered 

271 


Overland  Red 

his  gun,  swung  out  of  the  canon,  and  spurred 
down  the  mountain,  not  toward  the  desert  town, 
but  toward  Gophertown,  some  thirty  miles  to  the 
north.  He  had  found  the  claim.  The  desert  town 
folk  he  had  used  to  good  advantage.  They  had 
paid  his  expenses  while  he  trailed  Overland  and 
Collie.  They  had  even  guaranteed  him  protec 
tion  from  the  law  —  such  as  it  was  on  the 
Mojave.  He  had  every  reason  to  be  grateful  to 
them,  but  he  was  just  a  step  or  two  above  them 
in  criminal  artistry.  He  had  been  a  "killer." 
Like  the  lone  wolf  that  calls  the  pack  to  the  hunt, 
he  turned  instinctively  to  Gophertown,  a  settle 
ment  in  the  hills  not  unknown  to  a  few  of  the 
authorities,  but  unmolested  by  them.  The 
atmosphere  of  Gophertown  was  not  conducive 
to  long  life. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

SPECIAL 

OVERLAND,  leaning  on  his  shovel,  drew  his 
sleeve  across  his  forehead.  "Reckon  I'll  go 
down  and  wake  Collie.  He'll  sleep  his  head  off 
and  feel  worse  'n  thunder." 

"I'll  go,"  said  Winthrop,  throwing  aside  a  pan 
of  dirt  with  a  fine  disregard  of  its  eventual  value. 
"I  want  some  tobacco,  anyway." 

"Fetch  a  couple  of  sticks  of  dynamite  along, 
Billy.  I'll  put  in  one  more  shot  for  to-night." 

A  distant,  reverberating  report  caused  the  two 
men  to  jerk  into  attitudes  of  tense  surprise. 

"What  the  hell!"  exclaimed  Overland,  run 
ning  toward  the  tent.  "That  was  n't  the  kid. 
Collie's  only  packin'  a  automatic,  and  here  it  is." 

He  stopped  in  the  tent-door,  grabbed  up  the 
gun  and  belt,  and  ran  down  the  canon,  Winthrop 
following  breathlessly.  Near  the  notch  he 
paused,  motioning  Winthrop  to  one  side. 
"Mebby  it  was  to  draw  us  on.  You  keep  there, 
Billy.  I '11  poke  ahead." 

But  Overland  did  not  go  far.  He  almost  stum 
bled  over  the  prone  figure  of  Collie.  With  a  cry 
he  tore  his  handkerchief  from  his  throat  and 

273 


Overland  Red 

plugged  the  wound.    "Clean  through,"  he  said, 
getting  to  his  feet.   "Get  the  whiskey." 

"Shan't  I  help  you  carry  him?"  queried 
Winthrop. 

Overland  shook  his  head.  "Get  the  whiskey 
and  get  a  fire  goin'.  I'll  bring  him." 

"Will  he  — live?"  asked  Winthrop,  hesi 
tating. 

"I  reckon  not,  Billy.  He  was  plugged  from  be 
hind —  close  —  and  clean  through.  Here's  the 
slug." 

Then  Overland  picked  up  the  limp  form.  So 
this  was  the  end  of  all  his  planning  and  his  toil? 
He  cursed  himself  for  having  urged  Collie  to 
come  to  the  desert.  He  strode  carefully,  bent 
with  the  weight  of  that  shattered  body.  He  felt 
that  he  had  lost  more  than  the  visible  Collie; 
that  he  had  lost  the  inspiration,  the  ideal,  the 
grip  on  hope  that  had  held  him  toward  the  goal 
of  good  endeavor.  His  old-time  recklessness 
swept  down  upon  him  like  the  tides,  submerging 
his  better  self.  Yet  he  held  steadily  to  one  idea. 
He  would  do  all  that  he  could  to  save  Collie's  life. 
Failing  in  that  .  .  .  there  would  be  a  red  reckon 
ing.  After  that  he  would  not  care  what  came 

Already  he  had  planned  to  send  Winthrop,  in 
his  big  car,  for  a  doctor.  The  car  was  at  the 
desert  town,  where  a  liveryman  accepted  a  royal 
monthly  toll  in  advance  to  care  for  it. 

274 


Special 

At  the  tent  Overland  laid  Collie  on  the  blan 
kets,  bathed  and  bandaged  the  wound,  and 
watched  his  low  pulse  quicken  to  the  stimulant 
that  he  gave  him  in  small  doses. 

"It's  the  shock  as  much  as  the  wound,"  said 
Overland.  "He  got  it  close,  and  from  behind  — 
from  behind  do  you  hear?" 

Winthrop,  startled  by  the  other's  intensity, 
stammered:  "What  shall  I  do?  What  shall  I 
do?" 

Overland  bit  his  nails  and  scowled.  "You  will 
ride  to  town.  Collie's  boss  is  here.  Take  the 
Guzzuh  and  burn  the  road  for  Los  and  get  a 
doctor.  Not  a  pill  doctor,  but  a  knife  man. 
Bring  the  car  clean  back  here  to  the  range.  To 
hell  with  the  chances." 

Winthrop  slipped  into  his  coat  and  filled  a 
canteen. 

"If  that  horse  throws  me  —  "  he  began. 

"You  got  to  ride.  You  got  to,  understand?  I 
dassent  leave  him." 

Down  in  the  meadow  Overland  saddled  the 
pony  Yuma.  He  mounted  and  she  had  her 
"spell"  of  bucking.  "Now,  take  her  and  ride," 
said  Overland.  "After  you  hit  the  level,  let  her 
out  and  hang  on.  If  any  one  tries  to  stick  you  up 
this  time  —  why,  jest  nacherally  plug  'em. 
Sabe?" 

Winthrop  nodded. 

275 


Overland  Red 

Two  hours  later  a  wild-eyed,  sweating  pony 
tore  through  the  desert  town  at  a  run.  Her  rider 
slid  to  the  ground  as  the  liveryman  grabbed  the 
pony's  bridle. 

"Take  —  care  —  of  her,"  gasped  Winthrop. 
"I  want  —  the  machine." 

"Anybody  hurt?" 

"Yes.  Who  did  that?" 

Winthrop  stood  with  mouth  open  and  eyes 
staring.  The  tires  of  the  big  machine  were  flat. 

"I  dunno.  I  watched  her  every  day.  I  sleep 
here  nights.  Las'  Sunday  I  was  over  to  Daggett." 

"And  left  no  one  in  charge?" 

"The  boy  was  here." 

"Well  —  the  job  is  done.  Take  care  of  the 
horse.  I'll  be  back  in  a  minute." 

At  the  station  Winthrop  wired  for  a  special  car 
and  engine.  He  gave  his  check  for  the  amount 
necessary  and  went  back  to  the  stable.  He  was 
working  at  the  damaged  tires  when  the  agent 
appeared.  "Special's  at  the  Junction  now.  Be 
here  in  five  minutes." 

Winthrop  climbed  to  the  engine-cab.  "I'll 
give  you  ten  dollars  for  every  minute  you  cut 
from  the  regular  passenger  schedule,"  he  said. 

The  engineer  nodded.  "Get  back  on  the  plush 
and  hang  on,"  was  his  brief  acknowledgment. 

It  was  dark  when  the  surgeon,  drying  his 
276 


Special 

hands,  came  from  the  canon  stream  to  the  tent. 
"That 's  about  all  I  can  do  now,"  he  said,  slipping 
into  his  coat. 

Overland,  who  was  sitting  on  a  box  beside  the 
tent,  stood  up  and  stretched  himself.  "Is  he 
goin'  to  make  it?"  he  asked. 

"I  can't  say.  He  is  young,  in  good  condition,   - 
and  strong.    If  you  will  get  me  some  blankets, 
I'll  turn  in.  Call  me  in  about  two  hours." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE   RIDERS 

SEVERAL  days  passed  before  the  surgeon 
would  express  a  definite  opinion. 

Collie  lay,  hollow-cheeked  and  ghastly,  in  the 
dim  interior  of  the  tent.  His  eyes  were  wide  and 
fixed.  Overland  came  in.  Collie  recognized  him 
and  tried  to  smile.  Overland  backed  out  of  the 
tent  and  strode  away  growling.  The  tears  were 
running  down  his  unshaven  cheeks.  He  did  not 
return  until  later  in  the  day.  Then  he  asked  the 
surgeon  that  oft-repeated  question. 

"I  don't  see  how  he  can  recover,"  said  the  sur 
geon  quietly.  "Of  course  there's  a  slim  chance. 
Don't  build  on  it,  though." 

"If  there's  a  chance,  I  reckon  he  will  freeze  to 
it,"  said  Overland.  "From  what  he  was  ramblin' 
about  when  he  was  off  his  head,  I  reckon  he's  got 
somethin'  more  to  live  for  than  just  himself." 

"Has  he  any  relatives?"  queried  the  surgeon. 

"Nope.  Except  me.  But  he  was  expectin'  to 
have,  I  guess.  And  I  tell  you  what,  Doc,  she's 
worth  gettin'  shot  up  for." 

"Too  bad!  Too  bad,"  muttered  the  surgeon. 

"What's  too  bad,  eh?" 
278 


The  Riders 

The  other  shook  his  head.  "If  there  is  any  one 
that  he  would  care  to  see,  or  that  would  care  to 
see  him,  you  had  better  write  at  once." 

Overland  was  stunned.  The  doctor's  word  had 
been  given  at  last,  and  it  was  not  a  word  of  hope. 

Overland  Red  bowed  to  the  doctor's  opinion, 
but  his  heart  was  unconquerable.  He  wrote  a 
long  letter  to  his  old-time  friend,  Brand  Williams, 
of  the  Moonstone  Ranch.  The  letter  was  curi 
ously  worded.  It  did  not  mention  Louise  La- 
charme,  nor  Mrs.  Stone,  nor  the  rancher.  It  was, 
in  the  main,  about  Mexico  and  the  "old  days"; 
no  hint  of  Collie's  accident  was  in  the  page  until 
the  very  end.  The  letter  concluded  with  'But 
you  need  n't  think  you  owe  me  anything  for  that. 
I  was  glad  to  put  him  to  the  hush  because  we  was 
pals  them  days.  Collie  was  shot  by  Saunders. 
The  doctor  says  he  will  die  most  likely.  He  was 
shot  in  the  back.  It  would  go  bad  with  Saunders 
if  the  Moonstone  boys  ever  heard  of  this." 

The  letter  dispatched  by  Winthrop,  Overland 
Red  took  courage.  He  felt  that  he  himself  was 
holding  Collie's  life  from  sinking.  His  huge  op 
timism  would  not  admit  that  his  friend  could  die. 

He  was  leaning  back  against  a  rock  near  the 
notch  and  gazing  at  the  slanting  moonlight  that 
spread  across  the  somber  canon  walls.  A  week 
had  gone  since  he  mailed  his  letter  to  Brand  Wil- 

279 


Overland  Red 

liams,  of  the  Moonstone,  and  Collie  was  still  alive. 
Overland  shifted  his  position,  standing  beside 
him  the  Winchester  that  had  lain  across  his 
knees,  and  pulling  his  sombrero  over  his  eyes. 
The  notch  made  an  excellent  background  for  an 
object  over  the  sights  of  a  rifle,  even  at  night,  so 
long  as  the  moon  shone.  Gophertown  riders 
would  never  venture  that  far  up  the  canon  with 
horses.  They  would  tether  their  ponies  at  the 
entrance  and  come  afoot  and  under  cover.  Still, 
they  would  have  to  pass  the  notch  in  any  event. 

Thus  it  was  that  when,  some  few  minutes 
later,  Overland  heard  the  faint  jingle  of  rein- 
cha'ns,  he  grinned.  It  was  celestial  music  to  him. 

The  sound  came  again,  nearer  the  notch,  and 
clearer.  He  remained  motionless  gazing  at  the 
shadowy  opening. 

Slowly  a  shaft  of  moonlight  drew  down  toward 
the  notch,  silvering  its  ragged  edges.  Lower  the 
light  slid  until  it  revealed  the  opening  and  in  it 
the  figure  of  a  horseman.  In  the  white  light  Over 
land  could  see  the  quirt  dangling  from  the  other's 
wrist.  The  horseman's  wide  belt  glittered. 

"Brand!"  called  Overland  Red  softly.  The 
opposite  wall  took  up  the  name  hesitatingly  and 
tossed  it  back. 

"Brand!"  whispered  the  echoes  that  drifted 
to  the  darkened  corners  of  the  cliff  and  were  lost 
in  voiceless  murmurings. 

280 


The  Riders 

"Brand  your  own  stock,"  came  the  answer, 
low  and  distinct. 

Overland  laughed.  It  was  their  old-time  pun 
upon  the  foreman's  name.  He  got  to  his  feet  and 
approached.  "It  does  me  good,"  he  said,  extend 
ing  his  hand. 

"  How  is  Collie?  "  asked  Williams,  dismounting. 

Overland  heaved  a  great  sigh.  "He's  floatin' 
somewhere  between  here  and  the  far  shore. 
Mebby  he's  tryin'  to  pull  through.  The  doc  says 
the  kid  don't  seem  to  care  whether  he  does  or  not. 
Did  —  the  little  Rose  Girl  —  tell  you  anything 
to  —  to  say  to  him?  " 

"When  I  was  leavin'  she  come  out  to  the  gate," 
said  Williams.  "She  did  n't  say  much.  She  only 
hands  me  this,  and  kind  of  whispered,  '  Give  him 
this.  He  will  understand."' 

And  Williams  drew  a  small  gray  gauntlet  from 
his  shirt.  Overland  took  the  glove  and  tucked  it 
in  his  pocket. 

"Anything  doing?"  asked  Williams. 

"Nope.  They're  overdue  to  jump  us  if 
shootin'  Collie  was  any  sign." 

"Like  old  times,"  said  Williams. 

"Like  old  times,"  echoed  Overland.  "No 
trouble  findin'  your  way  across?" 

"Easy.  Followed  them  automobile  tracks 
clear  to  the  range.  We  fed  up  at  the  town.  The 
boys  gets  kind  of  restless  — " 

281 


Overland  Red 

"Boys?  Ain't  you  alone?" 

"Hell,  no!"  replied  Williams  disgustedly.  "I 
wish  I  was!  I  got  four  pigeon-toed,  bow-legged, 
bat-eared  Moonstoners  down  in  that  meadow, 
just  itchin'  mad  to  cut  loose.  And  they  ain't 
sayin'  a  word,  which  is  suspicious.  Worryin* 
across  the  old  dry  spot  the  last  three  days  has 
kind  of  het  'em  up.  And  then  hearin'  about  Col 
lie  ..." 

"How'd  you  come  to  have  so  much  com- 
p'ny?"  queried  Overland. 

"I  was  plumb  fool  enough  to  read  that  letter 
of  yours  to  'em.  They  all  like  Collie  first-rate. 
Better  than  I  calculated  on.  The  boss  talked 
turkey  to  'em,  but  he  had  to  let  'em  come.  He 
did  everything  he  could  to  hold  'em,  knowin' 
what  was  in  the  wind." 

"And  they  quit?" 

"Quit?  Every  red-eyed  bat  of  'em.  Bud  and 
Pars  and  Billy  and  Miguel.  Told  the  boss  they 
quit,  because  me  bein'  foreman  they  would  do  as 
I  says,  but  if  they  quit  I  was  n't  their  foreman 
any  longer,  and  they  would  do  as  they  dum 
please.  They  had  the  nerve  to  tell  me  that  I 
could  come  along  if  I  was  wishful." 

"Kind  of  bad  for  Stone,  eh?" 

"The  Price  boys  are  holdin'  down  the  ranch. 
You  see,  Jack,  it  hit  us  kind  of  hard,  Collie  ridin* 
away  one  mornin',  and  next  thing  your  letter 


The  Riders 

that  he  was  down  and  pretty  nigh  out.  The  boys 
did  n't  just  like  that." 

Overland  nodded.  "Well,  Brand,  I  guess  I'll 
step  down  and  look  'em  over." 

"Only  one  thing,  Jack.  I  feel  kind  of  respon 
sible  for  them  boys,  even  if  I  ain't  their  foreman 
just  now.  Don't  you  go  to  spielin'  to  'em  and  get 
'em  thinkin'  foolish.  They're  about  ready  to 
shoot  up  a  town,  if  necessary." 

"Been  hittin'  the  booze  any?" 

"Some.   But  not  bad." 

"All  right.  I  don't  want  to  say  only  'How!' 
and  thank  'em  for  Collie.  If  I  say  more  than 
three  words  after  that,  you  can  have  my 
hat," 

"It  don't  take  three  words,  sometimes,"  said 
Williams,  somewhat  ambiguously. 

"Leave  it  to  me,"  said  Overland,  still  more 
ambiguously. 

Ringed  round  their  little  fire  in  the  meadow 
sat  or  lay  the  Moonstone  riders.  While  crossing 
the  desert  Williams  had  sketched  a  few  of  the 
red  episodes  in  Overland's  early  career.  These 
pleased  the  riders  mightily.  They  were  anxious  to 
meet  Red  Jack  Summers.  When  Williams  did 
introduce  him,  they  were  rather  silent,  asking 
alter  Collie  in  monosyllables.  They  seemed 
strangely  reticent. 

283 


Overland  Red 

Both  Williams  and  Overland  felt  an  inexpEca- 
ble  tensity  in  the  situation. 

Miguel,  the  young  Mexican  vaquero,  broke 
silence.  "How  long  you  call  it  to  this  Gopher- 
town  place,  I  think?" 

"Thirty  miles,"  said  Overland. 

"Walkin'  backwards  —  like  Miguel's  talk" 
said  Billy  Dime. 

"That's  easy,"  said  Bud  Light. 

"What's  easy?"  questioned  Williams. 

"Walkin'  backwards,"  replied  the  facetious 
Bud. 

"If  you  don't  step  on  your  neck,"  said  Pars 
Long. 

"I'm  gettin'  cold  feet,"  asserted  Bud  Light 
after  a  silence. 

"That  disease  is  ketchin',"  said  Billy  Dime. 

"I  know  it.  I  been  sleepin'  next  to  you," 
retorted  Bud. 

Brand  Williams  glanced  across  the  fire  at 
Overland,  who  smiled  inscrutably.  The  under 
current  was  unfathomable  to  Williams,  though 
he  guessed  its  main  drift. 

Suddenly  Pars  Long  glanced  at  the  foreman. 
"Brand,"  he  said  quietly,  "we  expect  you  did  n't 
read  all  of  that  letter  from  your  friend  here.  You 
said  Collie  was  shot.  You  did  n't  say  how,  which 
ain't  natural.  We  been  talkin'  about  it.  Where 
was  he  hit?" 


The  Riders 

Overland  saw  his  chance  and  grasped  it  with 
both  hands.  "In  the  back,"  he  said  slowly,  and 
with  great  intensity. 

Followed  a  silence  in  which  the  stamping  of  the 
tethered  horses  and  the  whisper  of  the  fire  were 
the  only  sounds. 

Presently  Miguel  ran  his  fingers  through  his 
glossy  black  hair.  "In  the  back!"  he  exclaimed. 
"And  you  need  n't  to  tell  that  he  was  run  away, 
neither." 

"In  the  back?"  echoed  Billy  Dime. 

Overland  and  Williams  exchanged  glances. 
"You  done  it  now,"  said  Williams. 

"Cordin'  to  agreement,"  said  Overland. 

"Make  it  a  wireless,"  said  Billy  Dime.  "We 
ain't  listenin',  anyhow." 

"Only  thirty  miles.  What  do  you  say, 
Brand?" 

"Nothin'." 

"As  usual,"  ejaculated  Dime. 

"I  say  about  three  to-morrow  morning,"  ven 
tured  Pars  Long.  "  Light  will  be  good  about  nine. 
We  can  do  the  thirty  by  nine.  A  fella  would  be 
able  to  ride  round  town  then  without  fallin' 
over  anything." 

"What  you  fellas  gettin'  at?"  queried  Wil 
liams. 

"Gdphertown,"  replied  Dime.  "You  want  to 
come  along?" 

285 


Overland  Red 

"Is  it  settled?"  asked  the  foreman. 

The  group  nodded. 

"Well,  boys,  it  would  'a'  been  my  way  of 
evenin'  up  for  a  pal." 

"Then  you're  comin',  too?" 

"Do  you  think  I'm  packin'  these  here  two 
guns  and  this  belt  jest  to  reduce  my  shape?" 
queried  Williams  in  a  rather  hurt  tone. 

"Whoop-ee  for  Brand!"  they  chorused,  and 
the  tethered  ponies  shied  and  circled. 

"I  never  rode  out  lookin'  for  trouble,"  said 
Williams.  "And  I  never  shied  from  lookin'  at  it 
when  it  come  my  way." 

"Who  said  anything  about  trouble?"  queried 
Billy  Dime  innocently.  "I'm  dry.  I  want  a 
drink.  I'm  goin'  over  to  Gophertown  to  get  it. 
I '11  treat  the  bunch." 

"Which  bunch?" 

"Any  and  all  —  come  stand  up  and  down 
it." 

"We'll  be  there  when  you  call  our  numbers, 
sister.  You  comin'?"  asked  Pars  Long,  nodding 
toward  Overland. 

"Me?  Nope.  ...  I'm  goin'.  I'm  goin'  to  ask 
you  boys  to  kindly  allow  me  the  privilege  of 
gettin'  my  drink  first  and  by  my  lonesome. 
There  will  be  a  gent  there  with  sore  eyes.  He  got 
sore  eyes  waitin'  and  watchin'  for  me  to  call.  I 
expect  to  cure  him  of  his  eye  trouble.  After  that 

286 


The  Riders 

you  will  be  as  welcome  as  Mary's  little  lamb  — 
fried." 

"Bur-rie  me  not  on  the  lo-o-ne  prai-ree,"  sang 
Bud  Light. 

"  Not  while  you  got  the  fastest  hoss  in  the  out 
fit,"  said  Williams. 

"Collie's  hoss  is  here,"  said  Overland.  "I'm 
ridin'  her  this  trip.  I  kind  of  like  the  idea  of  usin' 
his  hoss  on  this  here  errand  of  mercy." 

"Three  —  to-morrow  mornin'!"  called  Billy 
Dime,  as  Overland  disappeared  in  the  shadows. 

Brand  Williams,  the  taciturn,  the  silent, 
stepped  from  the  fire  and  strode  across  the 
meadow.  He  paused  opposite  the  Yuma  colt  and 
gazed  at  her  in  the  moonlight.  He  jerked  up  his 
chin  and  laughed  noiselessly.  "Two-gun  Jack 
Summers  on  that  red  Yuma  hoss,  ridin'  into 
Gophertown  with  both  hands  filled  and  lookin' 
for  trouble.  .  .  .  God !  He  was  bad  enough  when 
he  was  dodgin'  trouble.  Well,  I'm  glad  I'm 
livin'  to  see  it.  I  was  commencin'  to  think  they 
was  n't  any  more  men  left  in  the  country.  I  'm 
forty-seven  year  old.  To-morrow  I  '11  be  twenty 
again  ...  or  nothin'." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

GOPHERTOWN 

SOME  towns  "nestle"  on  the  plain.  Others, 
more  aspiring,  "roost"  in  the  hills.  Gopher- 
town  squatted  on  the  desert  at  the  very  edge  of  a 
range  of  barren  foothills.  Its  principal  street  was 
not  much  more  than  a  bridle-trail  that  led  past 
eleven  ramshackle  cabins,  derelicts  of  the  old 
mining  days  when  Gophertown  knew  gold. 

The  population  of  Gophertown  was  of  an 
itinerant  order.  This  was  not  always  due  to 
internecine  disputes.  Frequently  a  citizen  be 
came  overbold  and  visited  his  old  haunts  instead 
of  remaining  safely,  even  if  monotonously,  at 
home.  Train  robbery  was  a  sure  passport  to 
Gophertown's  protection.  Man-killing  lent  an 
added  distinction  to  an  applicant  for  hurried  ad 
mission.  Cattle-  and  horse-thieving  were  mere 
industries  not  to  be  confounded  with  these  high 
er  professions. 

Overland  Red  had  once  wintered  in  Gopher 
town.  Immediately  previous  to  his  arrival  in 
Gophertown  he  had  been  obliged  to  maintain,  in 
an  unofficial  capacity,  his  former  prestige  as 
sheriff  of  Abilene.  The  town  of  Abilene  had 

288 


Gophertown 

sympathized  with  him  heartily,  but  had  advised 
him  to  absent  himself  indefinitely  and  within  the 
hour. 

The  general  store  and  saloon  of  the  old  mining 
camp  still  stood  at  the  corner  of  the  town  facing 
the  desert.  A  bleached  and  faded  sign  once  read, 
"Palace  Emporium."  The  letters  now  seemed 
to  be  shrinking  from  public  gaze  —  vanishing 
into  the  wood  as  though  ashamed  of  themselves. 
The  wording  of  the  sign  had  been  frequently 
and  indifferently  punctuated.  Each  succeeding 
marksman  had  exploded  his  own  theory,  and 
passed  on. 

Liquor  was  still  to  be  obtained  at  the  general 
store.  Provisions  were  occasionally  teamed  in 
and  were  made  up  of  peculiarly  conglomerate 
lots.  There  were  no  women  in  Gophertown. 
There  was  little  local  gossip.  There  was  no  regu 
lar  watch  kept  on  the  outlands.  Gophertown 
felt  secure  in  itself.  Each  man  was  his  own 
argus.  He  was  expected  to  know  his  enemies  by 
instinct.  He  was  expected,  as  a  usual  thing,  to 
settle  his  disputes  single-handed. 

Silent  Saunders  was  in  the  general  store  and 
saloon.  He  was  disgusted  in  that  he  had  been 
unable  to  induce  the  citizens  to  ride  out  with  him 
and  clean  up  Overland  Red's  claim.  Overland 
had  once  been  of  them,  even  if  briefly.  He  had 

289 


Overland  Red 

been  popular,  especially  as  he  was  then  the 
quickest  man  with  a  gun  they  had  ever  honored 
with  their  patronage.  Also,  the  Gophertown  folk 
had  recently  received  a  warning  letter  from  the 
superintendent  of  a  transcontinental  railroad. 
They  were  not  interested  in  Saunders's  proposal. 

Saunders,  coming  from  the  saloon,  was  not  a 
little  surprised  to  see  a  band  of  horsemen  far  out 
on  the  desert.  He  felt  that  their  presence  in  his 
vicinity  had  something  to  do  with  himself.  He 
counted  the  horses.  There  were  six  of  them.  He 
knew  instantly  that  the  riders  were  cowmen, 
although  he  could  not  distinguish  one  from 
another.  He  beckoned  to  the  saloon-keeper. 

"We  could  'a'  stopped  that,"  he  said,  pointing 
toward  the  desert. 

"Big  bunch.  One  —  two  —  three  —  six  of 
'em.  Big  bunch  to  come  visitin'  here." 

Saunders  gestured  toward  the  canon  behind 
Gophertown. 

The  saloon-keeper  shook  his  head.  "Don't 
think  most  of  our  boys  will  be  back  this  week. 
Brandin'  that  bunch  of  new  stock.  Takes  time 
to  do  it  right." 

"Well,  here  comes  Parks  and  Santa  Fe  Smith,'8 
said  Saunders.  "That  makes  four  of  us." 

"Mebby  —  and  mebby  not,"  said  the  saloon 
keeper.  "That  depends.  Depends  on  the  party 
that's  callin'  and  who  they're  callin'  on.'9 

290 


*'f '8  A  CLEAN-UP 


Gophertown 

**  There's  Sago  —  just  ridin'  the  ledge  traiL 
That's  five." 

"  'Lige  and  Joe  Kennedy  are  up  at  the  corrals/* 
said  the  saloon-keeper.  "They  would  hate  to 
miss  anything  like  this." 

"Mebby  they  won't,  if  that  bunch  gets  past 
us,"  said  Saunders. 

"Seen  the  time  when  you  could  handle  them 
alone,  did  n't  you,  Si?" 

"Yes,  and  I  can  now." 

"Nix,  Si.  Your  gun  arms  ain't  what  they  was 
sence  Overland  Red  winged  you." 

"How  in  hell  do  you  know  he  did?" 

"I  could  tell  you  more.  But  come  on  in  and 
have  one  on  the  house.  If  I  was  you,  I  'd  set  with 
my  back  to  the  door  and  be  taking  a  drink.  Red 
Summers  never  shot  a  man  in  the  back  yet.  If 
he's  playin'  for  you,  why,  that  gives  you  a 
chance  to  pull  a  gun." 

"How  about  you?"  queried  Saunders. 

"  Me?  None  of  my  business.  I  'm  here  to  push 
the  booze." 

"And  you'll  do  your  collectin'  with  a  gun, 
or  go  broke,  if  it's  Red  Summers  and  his 
friends." 

"Tryin'  to  scare  me  because  you  are?'5  asked 
the  bartender. 

"Red  helped  Kennedy  out  of  a  mix  once 
Kennedy  is  his  friend." 

291 


Overland  Red 

"But  Joe  ain't  here.  What's  gettin'  into  you? 
How  do  you  know  it  is  Red,  anyway?  You  act 
queer." 

"I  got  a  hunch,"  said  Saunders. 

"Then  you  want  to  go  into  action  quick,  for 
when  a  gunman  gets  a  hunch  that  he  knows  who 
is  trailin'  him,  it's  a  bad  sign." 

Saunders  drummed  on  the  table  with  his  fin 
gers.  The  drink  of  liquor  had  restored  his  nerve. 
Perhaps  the  riders  were  not  coming  to  visit  him, 
after  all.  He  rose  and  stepped  to  the  door.  The 
oncoming  horses  were  near  enough  for  him  to 
distinguish  the  roan  outlaw  Yuma  —  Collie's 
horse.  Her  rider's  figure  was  only  too  familiar. 
Saunders  fingered  his  belt.  Unbuckling  it,  he 
stepped  back  into  the  barroom  and  laid  the  two- 
bolstered  guns  and  the  belt  on  the  table. 

Parks,  from  up  in  the  canon,  rode  up,  tied  his 
pony,  and  strolled  to  the  bar,  nodding  to  Saun 
ders.  Following  him  came  Santa  Fe  Smith,  a 
bow-legged  individual  in  sweater  and  blue  jeans. 
He  nodded  to  Saunders.  Presently  Sago,  the 
Inyo  County  outlaw,  came  in,  wheezing  and 
perspiring.  Saunders  stepped  to  the  bar  and 
called  for  "one  all  around." 

As  they  drank  two  more  ponies  clattered  up 
and  'Lige  and  Joe  Kennedy  joined  the  group  at 
the  bar.  "  Hutch  and  Simpson  are  comin'  afoot," 
said  Joe  Kennedy. 

292 


Gophertown 

"That  leaves  Wagner  and  the  Chink  to  hear 
from,"  said  the  saloon-keeper. 

"Wagner's  sick.  I  don't  know  where  the 
Chink  is.  Everybody  seems  to  'a'  got  up  in  time 
for  dinner,  this  mornin',  eh?"  And  big  Joe 
Kennedy  laughed.  "This  here  bar  is  right  popu 
lar  jest  now." 

"Goin'  to  be  more  popular,"  said  the  saloon 
keeper. 

"That  so?"  exclaimed  several,  facetiously. 

"Ask  Saunders  there,"  said  the  saloon-keeper. 

"Friends  of  yours,  Silent?" 

"Yes.  Friends  of  mine." 

"Whole  six  of  'em,  eh?" 

"Whole  six  of  'em." 

"Well,  we  won't  butt  in.  We  '11  give  you  lots  of 


room." 


Saunders  said  nothing.  He  paid  for  the  liquor, 
and,  stepping  to  the  table,  sat  with  his  back  to 
the  doorway.  In  front  of  him  lay  his  guns, 
placed  handily,  but  with  studied  carelessness. 
He  leaned  naturally  on  one  elbow,  as  though 
half  asleep.  His  hat  was  tilted  over  his  brows. 

From  outside  came  the  jingle  of  spurs  and 
rein-chains  and  the  distant  sound  of  voices. 
Saunders  began  leisurely  to  roll  a  cigarette.  He 
laid  a  few  matches  on  the  table.  Several  of  the 
men  at  the  bar  grinned  knowingly. 

Then  came  the  gritting  of  heels  on  the  hard- 
293 


Overland  Red 

packed  trail  and  Overland  Red  stood  in  the  door 
way.  "  Mornin',  gents  —  and  Saunders,"  he  said, 
glancing  at  the  figure  seated  back  toward  him. 

"Hello,  Red!  "exclaimed  Joe  Kennedy.  "Out 
early,  ain't  you.  Have  a  drink." 

"Not  out  too  early.  Hello,  Lusk!" 

"How,  Red,"  said  the  saloon-keeper. 

"Where's  your  friends.  Ask  'em  in,"  said 
Kennedy. 

"Shall  I  ask  'em  in,  Saunders?"  queried 
Overland,  his  voice  edged  with  a  double  meaning. 

"Not  on  my  account,"  said  Saunders  over  his 
shoulder. 

"All  right.  Let's  have  a  drink,  boys/' 

Even  "Go-Light"  Sago,  the  vilest  of  the 
Gophertown  crew,  admired  Overland 's  coolness 
in  turning  his  back  on  Saunders  and  facing  the 
bar. 

For  a  second  Saunders's  fingers  twitched.  He 
glanced  up. 

Joe  Kennedy  was  looking  at  him  over  his  glass 
of  whiskey.  "Ain't  you  drinkin',  Silent?"  he 
asked. 

"With  some  folks,"  said  Saunders. 

Overland  whirled  round.  "Have  a  drink  with 
me,  then." 

Saunders  laughed. 

"Then  you  don't  smoke  either,  while  I'm 
here,"  said  Overland,  his  hand  on  his  hip. 

294 


Gophertown 

"That  so?" 

"  Yes,  that 's  so !  When  you  try  to  pull  that  old 
bluff  of  a  match-game  on  me,  wait  till  I'm  a 
hundred  and  four  years  old,  Silent.  That  gun- 
trick  died  of  old  age.  Think  up  a  new  one." 

"Ain't  you  talkin'  a  little  loud  for  polite 
sassiety  ?  "  questioned  Sago,  addressing  Overland. 

"Seein'  you're  the  only  one  that  thinks  so,  I 
reckon  not,"  said  Overland. 

"Then,"  said  Sago,  moving  slightly  from  the 
bar,  "Saunders  smokes." 

It  was  an  open  declaration  of  war.  Sago,  the 
Inyo  County  outlaw,  sided  with  Saunders. 

According  to  the  ethics  of  gunmen,  Saunders 
was  not  armed.  He  was  not  "packing  iron."  His 
weapons  lay  on  the  table  within  reach,  but  he 
knew  Overland  would  not  precipitate  matters  by 
shooting  him  down  where  he  sat.  He  glanced  at 
Sago.  The  other  winked. 

"Then  I  smoke,"  said  Saunders,  and  reached 
for  a  match.  He  shot  from  the  hip,  swinging 
his  guns  sideways.  The  stutter  of  Overland's 
automatics  mingled  with  the  roar  of  Saunders's 
heavy  Colts. 

Sago,  jumping  clear,  pulled  his  gun.  Kennedy 
clutched  his  arm.  Saunders  slid  from  his  chair, 
coughed  horribly,  and  wilted  to  the  floor.  Over 
land  backed  toward  the  door,  both  guns  lev 
eled. 

295 


Overland  Red 

Sago,  jerking  his  arm  free,  threw  two  shots  at 
Overland,  who  replied  with  a  rippling  tattoo  of 
the  automatics.  The  Inyo  County  outlaw  sank 
to  his  hands  and  knees.  Then  Overland  leaped 
through  the  doorway.  The  Moonstone  riders 
spurred  toward  the  saloon,  thinking  that  the 
quarrel  had  provoked  too  many  guns.  Over 
land  tried  to  stop  them,  but  they  were  hot  for 
fight. 

"It's  a  clean  up!"  yelled  Parks,  running  out 
of  the  saloon  and  mounting  his  horse.  "You 
framed  it,  you  red-headed  son  — "  He  got  no 
further.  Brand  Williams,  thundering  down  at  the 
head  of  the  Moonstone  riders,  threw  a  level  shot 
that  cut  through  Parks,  who  wavered,  but  man 
aged  to  wheel  his  horse  and  fire  at  Overland  Red. 
Then  the  outlaw  slid  from  the  saddle  clawing  at 
it  as  he  fell. 

The  Gophertown  men  poured  from  the  saloon, 
and,  seizing  their  ponies,  circled  round  to  the 
back  of  the  building,  firing  as  they  retreated. 

Miguel  spurred  his  big  pinto  in  among  them 
and  emptied  his  gun.  He  rode  out  at  a  lope,  re 
loading.  The  front  of  his  flannel  shirt  was  shot 
away,  but  he  was  not  aware  of  it. 

Billy  Dime  coolly  sat  his  horse  and  "drew 
fine"  at  each  shot,  till  a  leaden  slug  drilled  his 
gun-arm.  He  swore  profusely,  and  wisely  spurred 
out  of  range. 

296 


Gophertown 

"I  got  one!"  cried  Miguel,  swinging  shut  the 
cylinder  of  his  gun.  "I  go  get  another  one." 

"Give  'em  my  com-pli-ments,"  said  Dime, 
winding  a  handkerchief  round  his  arm  and  knot 
ting  it  with  one  hand  and  his  teeth. 

Williams,  keeping  under  cover,  fired  slowly  and 
with  great  precision.  Overland  Red,  utterly 
unable  to  manage  the  Yuma  colt  under  fire,  rode 
up  to  Williams.  "Let's  call  it  off,  Brand.  I  got 
my  man.  They  was  no  need  of  the  rest  of  it.  How 
did  it  start,  anyhow?" 

"That 's  about  what  the  kid  said  when  he  let  go 
the  wagon  on  top  of  the  hill.  I  counted  five 
Gophers  down.  Billy's  hit,  and  Miguel's  goin'  to 
be,  the  dam'  little  fool.  Look  at  him!" 

The  Gophertown  men  were  drawing  away 
toward  the  canon.  They  turned  occasionally  to 
throw  a  shot  at  Miguel  and  Pars  Long,  who 
followed  them. 

Bud  Light  sat  his  horse,  gazing  solemnly  at  the 
stump  of  his  gun-finger.  His  shirt  was  spattered 
with  blood. 

Suddenly  Williams  raised  a  shrill  call.  The 
Moonstone  boys  wheeled  their  ponies  and  rode 
toward  him.  Williams  pointed  up  the  canon. 
Down  it  rode  a  group  of  men  who  seemed  to  be 
undecided  in  their  movements.  They  would  spur 
forward  and  then  check  and  circle,  apparently 
waiting  for  their  friends  to  come  up  to  them. 

297 


Overland  Red 

"It's  the  rest  of  the  Gophertown  outfit.  We 
might  as  well  beat  it,"  said  Williams.  "  This  here 
thing's  gettin'  too  popular  all  to  once." 

"Did  that  guy  get  you?"  asked  Williams, 
nodding  to  Overland. 

"Not  what  you'd  notice,"  replied  Overland. 
"We'll  take  a  drink  on  the  house.  She  ain't  so 
tidy  as  she  was." 

"Neither  is  the  guy  behind  the  bar,"  said  Bud 
Light,  pointing  with  the  stub  of  his  finger  to 
Lusk's  face.  The  saloonkeeper  had  been  hit 
between  the  eyes  by  a  chance  bullet. 

"He's  where  he  belongs,"  said  Williams.  "So 
is  this  one."  And  Williams  touched  Saunders's 
body  with  his  boot.  "Let's  drink  and  vamoose." 

"Here's  to  the  kid!"  cried  Overland,  strangely 
white  and  shaky. 

"Here's  hoping!"  chorused  the  Moonstone 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

TOLL 

NONE  of  the  Moonstone  boys  had  sup 
posed  that  Overland  Red  was  hit.  He  rode 
joyfully  and  even  began  a  poem  to  the  occasion. 
Williams  was  first  to  notice  that  Overland's 
speech  was  growing  thick  and  that  his  free  hand 
clasped  the  saddle-horn. 

The  others,  riding  a  little  to  the  rear,  burst 
suddenly  into  boisterous  laughter.  "What  you 
think,  Brand?"  called  Pars  Long.  "Bud's  jest 
been  countin'  his  fingers  and  he  says  there  is  one 
missin'.  He  ain't  sure  yet,  but  he's  countin' 
hard.  He  has  to  skip  when  he  comes  to  number 
one  on  his  right  mitt.  Says  he  can't  get  started  to 
count,  that  way." 

"Some  lucky  it  ain't  his  head,"  replied  Wil 
liams. 

"His  head?  Bud  would  never  miss  that.  But 
his  pore  little  ole  finger,  layin'  calm  and  cold 
back  there.  A  very  sad  business,  brethren." 

"I  paid  twelve  sweaty  plunks  for  her  in  Los 
and  look  at  her!"  cried  Pars  Long,  doffing  his 
sombrero.  The  high  crown  was  literally  shot  to 
pieces.  "I  guess  I  am  some  wise  guy.  You  fellas 

299 


Overland  Red 

kidded  me  about  sportin'  an  extra  high  lid.  Come 
on,  Chico,  they're  laughin'  at  us!" 

"If  they'd  'a'  shot  the  crown  off  clean  down  to 
your  ears,  you'd  never  noticed  it,"  grumbled 
Billy  Dime. 

"Mebby  I  am  a  flat-headed  chicken,  Billy,  but 
I  got  both  wings  yet,"  retorted  Long. 

Billy  Dime  looked  down  at  the  blood-soaked 
sleeve  of  his  right  arm.  "The  fella  that  did  it  is 
eatin'  grass  now,"  he  muttered. 

"Now,  what's  the  matter  with  Miguel?  Dis 
covered  any  bullets  nestin'  in  your  manly  buz- 
sum,  Miguel?" 

"I  think  no.  But  I  lose  something,"  replied 
Miguel,  smiling. 

"That  so?" 

"I  did  have  the  tobacco  and  papers  here,"  he 
said,  and  he  put  his  hand  on  his  chest.  "Now  I 
look  and  the  pocket  and  some  of  the  shirt  is  not 
there  —  and  my  tobacco  is  gone,  and  the  little 
papers." 

"Is  that  all?  Sad.  I  thought  you 'd  lost  a  rail 
road  or  a  steamship  or  something.  Cheer  up! 
Things  might  be  better." 

"I  think  I  like  to  smoke,"  said  Miguel,  quite 
seriously.  "  I  will  ride  back  and  get  some  tobacco 
and  some  more  papers." 

"That  ain't  all  you'll  get.  Here,  smoke  up. 
You  look  fine  in  that  peek-a-boo  shirt.  Never 

300 


Toll 

knowed  you  had  such  a  good  shape.  What  size 
gloves  do  you  wear,  pet?  "  And  Pars  Long  passed 
tobacco  and  papers  to  Miguel,  who  rolled  a  cigar 
ette  and  smoked  contentedly. 

"Billy,  you  look  sick,"  said  Bud  Light. 

"Oh,  no!  I  want  to  go  to  a  dance,  right  away. 
Whoa!" 

They  drew  rein.  Williams,  dismounting,  was 
bending  over  his  companion  Overland,  who  had 
suddenly  slipped  from  the  saddle. 

"Where's  he  punctured?"  queried  Bud  Light. 

Williams  examined  the  prostrate  man.  "Kind 
of  low  down,  and  in  the  side.  'T  ain't  bad,  but 
it's  bad  enough.  Got  any  whiskey?" 

"You  bet!  I  got  a  pocket-gun  here.  Swiped  it 
in  the  saloon."  And  Pars  Long  handed  a  flask  to 
Williams. 

The  riders,  standing  round  the  fallen  man, 
watched  Williams  as  he  bound  up  the  wound, 
which  was  bleeding  slowly.  The  whiskey  par 
tially  revived  Overland.  He  managed  finally  to 
cling  to  the  saddle,  supported  by  Williams. 

"She's  thirty  hot  miles  to  camp.  Red  won't 
last  out,"  said  Long. 

"I  say  he  does,"  said  Bud  Light.  "Did  you 
see  them  puckers  in  his  hide?  I  counted  seven. 
He  ain't  made  to  be  stopped  by  a  gun." 

"Mebby  he  ain't  stopped,  but  he's  slowed  up 
considerable.  Did  you  see  the  two  guys  he  got? 

301 


Overland  Red 

Saunders  was  pretty  nigh  cut  in  two  and  the 
other  one  by  the  bar  had  four  holes  in  him.  I 
counted  'em,  to  quit  thinkin'  of  my  arm.  Them 
automatics  is  fierce!" 

"He  would  never  'a'  got  out  if  he'd  been 
packin'  a  regular  old  six-gun,"  said  Bud  Light. 
"Both  them  guys  were  thro  win'  lead  at  him." 

"How  do  you  know?  You  was  n't  there." 

"Easy.  He  went  in  to  get  Saunders.  He  gets 
him.  The  other  one  takes  a  hand.  He  got  him. 
We  did  n't  do  any  shootin'  inside." 

"Guess  that's  right.  But  how  about  the 
barkeep?" 

"Oh,  he  just  got  in  the  way.  He  was  drilled 
between  the  lamps.  In  a  mix  like  that  who's 
goin'  to  take  time  to  draw  fine?" 

"Did  you  see  Brand  lift  the  Gophertown  guy 
out  of  his  saddle  —  the  one  that  was  shootin'  at 
Red  in  front  of  the  joint?  Brand  threw  a  forty- 
five  into  him,  and  comin'  on  the  jump,  too. 
The  Gopher  humped  up  like  he'd  been  horned 
by  the  Santa  Fe  Limited.  Now  what's  the 
dope?" 

Overland  Red  had  again  fallen  from  his  horse. 
Williams  beckoned  to  Long.  "Take  the  Yuma 
colt,  Pars,  and  fan  it  for  the  canon.  Send  the  doe 
back,  and  you  stay  with  that  young  Winthrop 
and  look  after  Collie.  Your  hoss  is  quieter  for 
Red,  anyway.  Tell  the  doc  to  bring  his  tools 

302 


Toll 

along.  I  reckon  we'll  camp  over  there  near  the 
hills  till  to-morrow." 

"Who  was  it  got  me?  "  questioned  Overland  as 
he  was  revived  a  second  time. 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Williams.  "The  only 
distinguishin'  brand  on  him  was  one  I  put  there. 
It  ain't  worryin'  him  now." 

"Like  old  times,"  said  Overland,  trying  to 
smile. 

"Like  old  times,"  echoed  Williams. 

"I  guess  it  was  Parks,"  murmured  Overland. 
"He  had  plenty  of  chance.  I  was  n't  after  him." 

Slowly  the  group  of  horsemen  rode  across  the 
desert.  The  afternoon  sun  made  queer  shadows 
of  them  and  their  mounts.  Billy  Dime  rode  bent 
forward.  His  face  was  white  and  beaded  with 
sweat.  Overland,  on  Long's  pony,  was  sup 
ported  by  Miguel  and  Brand  Williams.  Pars 
Long  had  disappeared  in  the  shadows  of  the 
range. 

Billy  Dime's  eyes  grew  strangely  bright.  He 
laughed,  gazing  at  the  foreman's  back.  "The 
whole  damn  fuss  was  wrong,  wrong,  I  tell  you! 
We  had  no  business  shootin'  up  that  town." 

"But  it  was  considerable  pleasure,"  said  Bud 
Light.  "You 're  off  your  bean,  Billy.  I  guess  you 
forget  what  they  did  to  Collie." 

Billy  Dime  leered.  The  fever  from  his  wound 
303 


Overland  Red 

was  working  through  his  blood.  "Don't  pertend 
to  me,  Bud  Light,  that  you  come  on  this  little 
pasear  on  account  of  Collie.  It  was  her  eyes 
that  said  to  go.  You  know  that.  She  never  said 
words,  but  her  eyes  said  to  go  —  and  to  kill !  Do 
you  get  that?  That's  what  a  woman  can  do  to 
a  man,  without  sayin'  a  word.  And  what  did 
Collie  ever  do  for  me?  Look  at  that  arm.  Look  at 
it!  What  did  Collie  ever  do  for  me  to  get  shot  up 
this  way?"  And  Billy  Dime  began  to  weep.  "I 
killed  two  of  'em  —  two  of  'em.  I  saw  'em  drop. 
I  was  drawin'  fine  — fine,  I  tell  you,  and  I  could 
n't  miss." 

Bud  Light  rode  forward  to  Williams.  "Billy's 
gone  off  his  crust.  He's  ravin'  back  there, 
Brand." 

Williams  drew  Long's  flask  from  his  saddle- 
pocket.  "Give  him  a  shot  of  this.  Take  some 
yourself.  Miguel  and  I  don't  need  any.  Hold  on 
—  I  '11  give  Red  a  shot  first.  When  it  gets  to 
workin',  you  yip  and  ride  for  the  hills.  We'll  all 
ride  —  ride,  you  understand?  It'll  be  a  dry 
camp,  and  a  hard  flash,  but  we'll  make  it." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

TWO   ROSES 

ONE  morning,  some  three  weeks  after  the  in 
vasion  of  Gophertown,  Bud  Light,  Billy 
Dime,   and   Brand   Williams   appeared   at  the 
Moonstone  Ranch  office. 

Quite  casually  they  had  dismounted,  and  jin 
gling  up  had  asked  for  Walter  Stone.  Upon  his 
appearance  the  younger  men  applied  individually 
for  their  old  places.  The  room  smelled  of  cigar 
ette  smoke  and  antiseptics.  Quite  as  though  no 
thing  unusual  had  happened  the  rancher  rein 
stated  them. 

"Have  a  good  time,  boys?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  sir.  Very  good  time.  Better  than  we  ex 
pected,"  replied  Billy  Dime.  Bud  Light  nodded. 

Stone  looked  hard  at  Billy  Dime's  bandaged 
arm.  "Miguel  and  Parson  Long  have  a  good 
time  also?" 

"Stayed  to  help  Overland  Red  work  the  claim. 
Overland  Red  got  hurt  a  little,  doin'  somethin'. 
He's  all  right  now." 

"None  of  the  Moonstone  boys  were  injured?" 

"Nope.  Not  a  one  of  us,"  replied  Dime 
blandly. 

305 


Overland  Red 

Walter  Stone's  eyes  twinkled,  but  he  did  not 
smile.  "We  will  call  it  a  vacation  this  time,  with 
pay.  Tell  Williams  to  step  in  here,  please."  And 
the  rancher  dismissed  his  embarrassed  and  happy 
punchers  with  a  gesture. 

The  interview  with  Williams  was  not  so  brief. 
"The  boys  came  out  of  it  all  right ?"  asked 
Stone,  shaking  hands  with  his  old  foreman. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"How  did  you  manage  that?" 

"Didn't.  They  did." 

"Any  one  —  er  —  of  the  other  side  have  an 
accident?" 

"  Saunders  —  and  six  gents  got  hurt  pretty 
bad." 

"Whew!  Our  boys  were  lucky." 

"It  was  nothin'  but  luck  that  they  ain't  all 
back  there  now  —  on  the  sand.  You  see,  the 
Gophertown  outfit  are  all  what  you'd  call  good 
with  a  gun,  but  it  was  kind  of  a  surprise,  the 
spreadin'  of  the  thing  from  Red's  little  private 
deal  to  a  six-hand  game.  We  sure  was  lucky." 

"And  Collie?" 

Williams  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  know.  We 
thought  he  had  crossed  over.  Seems  he  took  a 
new  holt.  The  doc  and  Winthrop  brung  him  to 
Los  in  the  automobile.  He 's  at  the  hospital.  But 
they  say  he  don't  pick  up  any  since  he  come 
there." 

306 


Two  Roses 

"All  right,  Brand.  I  think  that  is  all." 

"How  about  my  name  goin'  back  on  the 
books?"  asked  Williams. 

"It  hasn't  been  off  the  books.  You  know, 
Louise  attends  to  the  time-sheet." 

Williams  nodded.  "I  expect  Miguel  and 
Parson  Long  will  be  sniffin'  around  lookin'  for  a 
job  before  long.  They  agreed  to  stay  with  Red 
till  he  got  on  his  feet  again.  But  they  told  him 
they  would  go  just  as  soon  as  he  was  all  right,  for 
you  could  n't  run  your  ranch  without  'em." 

Walter  Stone  smiled  broadly.  "You're  fore 
man,  Brand." 

"They  was  fightin'  just  as  much  for  the  name 
of  the  old  Moonstone  as  for  Collie,  or  for  fun," 
said  Williams. 

"I  know  it.  But  I  don't  believe  in  such 
methods.  That  sort  of  thing  is  about  done  with," 
said  Stone. 

"I  was  readin'  about  the  old  days  in  the 
Panamint,  not  long  ago,"  said  Williams,  gazing 
at  a' corner  of  the  office.  "I  —  they  was  a  list 
of  names  of  the  ranchers  that  cleaned  up  the 
rustlers  over  there,  back  in  '86.  It  was  inter- 
estin'  —  some  of  them  names." 

Walter  Stone  coughed  and  turned  in  his  chair. 
He  gazed  out  of  the  window.  Finally  he  faced 
Williams  again.  "We  had  to  do  it,"  he  said, 
smiling. 

307 


Overland  Red 

Williams  nodded.  They  understood  each 
other. 

The  Marshalls,  delighted  with  Los  Angeles, 
had  taken  apartments  in  the  city.  Dr.  Marshall, 
at  the  urgent  request  of  Walter  Stone,  had  called 
at  the  hospital  to  see  Collie.  The  wound  had 
healed  slowly.  Collie  gained  no  strength.  He 
seemed  indifferent  as  to  whether  he  recovered  or 
not.  Dr.  Marshall,  consulting  with  the  surgeon, 
agreed  that  the  young  man's  recovery  was  still 
doubtful.  His  vitality  was  extremely  low.  His 
usual  optimism  had  stagnated. 

Later,  when  Walter  Stone,  Mrs.  Stone,  and 
Louise  visited  the  hospital,  Collie  had  smiled 
wanly  and  said  but  little,  thanking  them  for  their 
visit  with  a  word. 

Louise  returned  home,  heartsick  and  haunted 
by  Collie's  eyes  that  had  seemed  so  listless,  so 
indifferent,  so  weary.  She  had  hoped  to  cheer 
him.  His  indifference  affected  her  more  than 
his  actual  physical  condition,  which  seemed  to  be 
the  cause  of  it.  Louise  recognized  in  herself  a 
species  of  selfishness  in  feeling  as  she  did.  Like 
most  folk  of  superabundant  health  she  was  un 
able  to  realize  the  possibilities  of  sickness.  She 
longed  for  his  companionship.  She  had  not  dared 
to  ask  herself  whether  or  not  she  loved  him.  She 
was  glad  that  he  should  love  her  —  and  yet  she 

308 


Two  Roses 

was  not  altogether  happy.  She  had  sent  him  her 
token,  the  little  gray  riding-gauntlet.  He  had  in 
no  way  acknowledged  it. 

The  sentiment  incident  to  Collie's  almost  fatal 
misfortune  did  not  blind  her  in  the  least.  She 
told  herself  frankly  that  she  missed  him.  At  the 
ranch  he  had  been  with  her  much.  From  her  he 
had  gleaned  of  books  and  people.  The  actual 
advantage  to  him  was  not  in  the  quantity  of 
knowledge  he  had  gained,  but  in  the  quality  and 
direction  suggested  by  her  attitude  toward  all 
things.  The  advantage  to  her  in  his  companion 
ship  had  been  the  joy  of  giving,  of  shaping  his 
thought,  of  seeing  him  slowly  and  unconsciously 
differentiate  himself  —  stand  apart  from  his  fel 
lows  as  something  she  had  helped  to  create.  This 
much  of  him  she  possessed  through  conscious 
effort. 

Then  to  have  seen  him  in  the  hospital,  helpless, 
seemingly  beyond  any  noticeable  influence  of  her 
presence,  stirred  in  her  a  kind  of  maternal  jeal 
ousy.  Straightway  she  visited  Anne  Marshall, 
who  kissed  her,  held  her  at  arms'  length,  saw  the 
soft  rose  glow  in  her  face,  and  spoke  to  the  point, 
albeit  in  parables.  Dr.  Marshall  had  been  very 
poor  —  a  doctor  in  the  slums  —  just  before  they 
were  married.  People  had  said  things  and  had 
looked  things,  which  was  even  worse.  They  sub 
tly  intimated  that  the  doctor  was  marrying  her 

309 


Overland  Red 

for  her  money.  She  was  the  happiest  woman  in 
the  world.  She  thought  Collie  was  the  manliest 
and  most  striking  figure  she  had  ever  seen. 

To  all  of  which  Louise  listened  quietly,  blush 
ing  a  little.  "And  he  is  wealthy,"  concluded 
Anne.  "For  so  young  a  man,  he  is  wealthy.  The 
Rose  Girl  Mining  Company,  Incorporated,  my 
dear,  pays  well.  Collie  is  one  of  the  three  largest 
stockholders.  You  see,  Billy  and  Overland  Red 
have  decided  to  turn  the  claim  into  a  corpora 
tion." 

"Don't  you  contradict  your  — your  theory  a 
little,  Anne?"  asked  Louise. 

"No,  indeed!  It  doesn't  matter  in  the  least 
who  has  the  money,  so  long  as  the  man  is  the 
right  one." 

And  Louise  was  silent,  and  a  bit  happier. 

The  little  parcel  that  came  to  the  hospital, 
directed  to  Collie,  was  from  Overland.  It  was 
accompanied  by  a  vividly  worded  note  and  a 
small,  stained,  and  wrinkled  glove,  at  once 
familiar. 

Overland 's  note  explained  the  delay  in  for 
warding  the  glove.  "It's  some  mussed  up,"  he 
wrote,  "because  I  had  it  in  my  shirt  when  I  was 
hit.  I  was  some  mussed  up  likewise,  or  I  would 
not  'a'  forgot  it  so  long.  The  little  Rose  Girl  sent 
it  to  you  by  Brand  when  she  thinks  you  was 
.going  to  cross  over  on  the  last  sunset  limited. 

310 


Two  Roses 

And  I  am  feeling  Fine,  thanks.  Do  not  rite  to  me 
if  it  gives  you  cramps.  —  Youres  verry  fathe- 
fuly,  Jack." 

Collie  turned  the  gauntlet  over  in  his  trembling 
fingers.  His  eyes  glowed.  He  called  the  nurse, 
telling  her  he  was  hungry. 

Anne  Marshall's  visits  were  always  refreshing. 
Well-gowned,  cool,  fragrant,  she  came,  next 
afternoon,  to  Collie's  bedside. 

"You  must  get  well,"  she  said,  smiling.  "The 
doctor  will  be  terribly  disappointed  if  you  don't. 
Is  n't  that  coldly  encouraging?  What  a  thing  to 
say!" 

"I  don't  want  to  disappoint  anybody,"  said 
Collie. 

"Well,  you  will  if  you  don't  get  better  right 
away,  sir!  I  wish  I  could  do  something  to  help.  I 
can  only  sympathize  and  encourage  the  doctor." 

"  I  know  he 's  doing  a  whole  lot  for  me.  I  think 
mebby  you  could  help  —  a  little  —  if  you  wanted 
to." 

"Gracious!  As  though  I  did  n't!  Why  did  n't 
you  tell  me  sooner?" 

"It  only  came  yesterday,"  said  Collie,  tremu 
lously  drawing  the  gauntlet  from  beneath  his 
pillow. 

Anne  Marshall  gazed  at  the  soiled  and  wrin 
kled  glove  with  unenlightened  eyes.  Then  her 
quick  smile  flashed.  "Oh!  Now  I  know!  So  that 

311 


Overland  Red 

is  the  talisman?  Came  yesterday?  No  wonder 
you  seem  brighter." 

Collie's  answering  smile  was  irresistible.  "It 
is  n't  just  the  glove  —  but  would  you  —  I  mean, 
if  you  was  like  me  —  without  being  educated  or 
anything  —  "  He  hesitated,  breathing  deeply. 

But  Anne  Marshall  understood  him  instantly, 
and  answered  his  shyly  questioning  eyes. 

"Indeed,  I  should.  If  I  had  half  your  chance,  I 
should  n't  waste  a  minute  in  claiming  the  mate  to 
that  glove.  One  glove  is  of  absolutely  no  use,  you 
know." 

"This  one  was  —  pretty  much,"  sighed  Collie. 
"I  was  feeling  like  letting  go  inside  and  not  trying 
to  —  to  stay  any  longer,  just  before  it  came." 

"S-s-s-h!  Don't  even  think  of  that.  Someone 
called  on  me  a  few  days  ago.  You  are  a  very 
fortunate  young  man." 

Anne  Marshall's  ambiguity  was  not  altogether 
displeasing  to  Collie,  in  that  it  was  not  alto 
gether  unintelligible. 

William  Stanley  Winthrop,  sojourning  briefly 
but  fashionably  in  Los  Angeles,  appeared  at  the 
hospital  in  immaculate  outing  flannels.  It  was 
several  weeks  after  his  sister's  last  visit  there. 
Winthrop  took  the  convalescent  Collie  to  the 
Moonstone  Rancho  in  his  car. 

Bud  Light  and  Billy  Dime  accidentally  met 
812 


Two  Roses 

the  car  in  the  valley  and  accompanied  it  vigor 
ously  through  Moonstone  Canon. 

Aunt  Eleanor  and  Walter  Stone  were  at  the 
gate.  Collie  was  helped  to  the  house  and  imme 
diately  taken  to  the  guest-room.  He  was  much 
fatigued  with  the  journey.  The  question  in  his 
eyes  was  answered  by  Aunt  Eleanor.  "Louise 
rode  over  to  the  north  range  to-day.  She  should 
be  back  now." 

Winthrop  scarce  needed  an  introduction.  He 
was  Anne  Marshall's  brother.  That  was  suffi 
cient  for  the  host  and  hostess.  He  was  made  wel 
come  —  as  he  was  wherever  he  went.  He  had 
heard  a  great  deal,  from  his  sister,  of  the  Stones, 
and  their  beautiful  niece,  Louise  Lacharme.  He 
was  enthusiastic  about  the  Moonstone  Canon. 
He  grew  even  more  enthusiastic  after  meeting 
Louise. 

She  came  riding  her  black  pony  Boyar  down 
the  afternoon  hillside  —  a  picture  that  he  never 
forgot.  Her  gray  sombrero  hung  on  the  saddle- 
horn.  Her  gloves  were  tucked  in  her  belt.  She 
had  loosened  the  neck  of  her  blouse  and  rolled 
back  her  sleeves,  at  the  spring  above,  to  bathe 
her  face  and  arms  in  the  chill  overflow.  Her  hair 
shone  with  a  soft  golden  radiance  that  was  ethe 
real  in  the  flicker  of  afternoon  sunlight  through 
the  live-oaks.  From  her  golden  head  to  the  tip  of 
her  small  riding-boot  she  was  a  harmony  of  vigor 

313 


Overland  Red 

and   grace,   of  exquisite   coloring   and   infinite 
charm. 

Her  naturalness  of  manner,  her  direct  sim 
plicity,  was  almost,  if  not  quite,  her  greatest 
attraction,  and  a  quality  which  Winthrop  fully 
appreciated. 

"I  have  been  quite  curious  about  you,  Mr, 
Winthrop,"  she  said.  "You  are  quite  like  Anne. 
I  adore  Anne.  Shall  we  turn  Boyar  into  the 
corral?" 

If  William  Stanley  Winthrop  had  had  any  idea 
of  making  an  impression,  he  forgot  it.  The  im 
pression  Louise  was  unconsciously  making 
straightway  absorbed  his  attention. 

"Yes,  indeed!  Turn  him  into  the  corral  — 
turn  him  into  anything.  Miss  Lacharme.  You 
have  the  magic.  Make  another  admirer  of  him." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Winthrop.  But  Boyar  could 
hardly  be  improved." 

"You  trained  him,  didn't  you?"  queried 
Winthrop. 

Louise  laughed.  "Yes.  But  he  was  well-bred 
to  begin  with." 

Winthrop  ejaculated  a  mental  "Ouch!"  Sim- 
plicity  did  not  necessarily  mean  stupidity. 

"Do  you  enjoy  mining  —  the  real  work  —  out 
there  in  the  desert,  Mr.  Winthrop?" 

"I  could  enjoy  anything  in  company  with 
Overland." 

314 


Two  Roses 

"Of  course.  Do  you  think  people  who  have 
lots  of  money  are  apt  to  be  cynical?"  she  asked. 

"Not  more  so  than  people  without  money. 
But  what  splendid  animals!"  he  exclaimed  as 
they  approached  the  corral. 

"Uncle  Walter  and  I  are  very  fond  of  them," 
she  said,  turning  Boyar  into  the  inclosure. 

"Do  you  know,  Miss  Lacharme,  I  like  horses 
and  dogs  and  cats,  and  I  just  revel  in  burros. 
But  animals  don't  seem  to  like  me.  They're 
rather  indifferent  to  me.  I  wonder  if  it  is  a  mat 
ter  of  health,  or  magnetism,  or  something  of  that 
sort?" 

"Oh,  no!  But  it  is  difficult  to  explain.  Even  if 
you  are  very  fond  of  animals  it  does  n't  follow 
that  they  will  like  you.  That  seems  rather  cold, 
does  n't  it?  It's  almost  unfair." 

"Yes,  if  one  considers  it  seriously." 

"Don't  you?" 

Winthrop  gazed  at  her  for  a  second  before 
replying.  "I  see  I  must  tell  you  the  truth,"  he 
said  lightly.  "You  compel  it.  It  does  hurt  me  to 
have  anything  or  any  one  that  I  care  for  indiffer 
ent  to  me.  Perhaps  it's  because  I  realize  that  I 
am  giving  affection  and  selfishly  want  "value 
returned,'  so  to  speak.  Pardon  me  for  becoming 


serious." 


"Surely!    But  I  thank  you,  too.    See  Boyar 
roll!   He's  happy.   No,  he  does  n't  roll  because 

315 


Overland  Red 

his  back  itches.  You  see,  he's  sweaty  where  the 
saddle  covered  him.  Before  he  rolled,  you  no 
ticed  that  he  deliberately  found  a  dusty  spot. 
The  dust  dries  the  sweat  and  he  does  n't  take 
cold.  That's  the  real  explanation." 

"I  knew  it  could  n't  be  through  happiness  at 
leaving  you,"  said  Winthrop. 

"If  you  are  determined  to  keep  it  up,"  said 
Louise  mischievously,  "all  right.  But  be  careful, 
sir !  I  enjoy  it.  It 's  been  dull  —  dreadfully  dull 
since  Anne  and  the  doctor  left.  May  I  have  your 
knife?" 

A  belated  crimson  Colombe  rose  nodded  be 
neath  the  guest-room  window.  Louise  cut  the 
stem  and  pinned  the  flower  in  the  lapel  of  Win- 
throp's  white  flannel  coat.  He  gazed  at  her 
intent  on  her  task. 

"There!"  she  said,  with  a  light  touch  of  her 
supple  fingers.  "That  will  do."  And  slowly  her 
gray  eyes  lifted  to  his. 

The  color  flooded  to  his  face.  His  eyes  became 
momentarily  brilliant.  He  drew  a  deep  breath. 
"You  told  me  to  be  careful.  I  shall  be,"  he 
said,  bowing  slightly.  "Please  say  something.. 
Your  silent  attack  was  a  little  too  —  too  success 
ful." 

"Truce?"  she  queried,  laughing. 

"Never!"  replied  Winthrop.  "Even  as  our 
father  mutual  and  distinctly  illustrious  friend 

316 


Two  Roses 

Overland  says,  'Not  till  me  wires  are  all  down 
and  me  lights  are  out.' ' 

Collie,  standing  at  the  open  French  window 
just  above  them,  drew  back.  Quite  naturally, 
being  a  young  man  in  love,  he  misinterpreted  all 
that  he  had  seen  and  heard.  Louise  had  been 
away  the  day  he  was  expected  to  return  to  the 
ranch.  She  had  come  back.  She  was  seemingly 
satisfied  with  Winthrop's  society.  She  was  even 
more  than  satisfied;  she  was  flirting  with  him. 
An  unreasonable,  bucolic  jealousy,  partly  due  to 
his  condition,  overcame  Collie's  usual  serenity. 
His  invalidism  magnified  the  whole  affair  to 
absurd  proportions. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  intensity  of  his  gaze  that 
caused  Louise  to  glance  up.  His  expression 
startled  her.  His  eyes  were  burning.  His  face  was 
unnaturally  white.  He  met  her  glance,  but  gave 
no  sign  of  recognition  —  a  rudeness  that  he 
regretted  even  while  he  manifested  it. 

Louise  turned  away  proudly,  calling  Win 
throp's  attention  to  a  huge  garden-seat  beneath 
the  live-oaks.  "We  have  dinner  out  there  quite 
often,"  she  said,  her  eyes  glowing.  "Would  you 
care  to  rest  a  while  after  your  ride?" 

"'A  jug  of  wine  —  a  loaf  of  bread — '"  he 
quoted. 

"But  it  is  n't  a  wilderness.  And  dinner  won't 
be  ready  for  an  hour  yet.  Don't  you  think  a 

317 


Overland  Red 

wilderness  would  have  been  utterly  stupid  with 
his  *  thou '  beside  him  singing  everlastingly?  Now 
please  don't  say,  'It  would  depend  on  the 
thou.999 

"Do  you  sing,  Miss  Lacharme?" 

"A  little." 

"Please,  then, — a  little.  Then  I'll  answer 
your  question." 

"I  had  rather  not,  just  now." 

"My  answer  would  be  the  same  in  either  case. 
This  is  living,  after  the  desert  and  its  loneliness. 
I  discovered  one  thing  out  there,  however,  — 
myself.  It  was  a  surprise.  My  'way-back  ances 
tors  must  have  been  pirates." 

"Mine  —  grew  roses  —  in  southern  France." 

"I  am  glad  they  eventually  came  to  America," 
he  said. 

"Are  you  so  fond  of  candy,  Mr.  Winthrop?" 

"No." 

"Neither  am  I." 

"I'm  glad  they  came,  just  the  same.  I  simply 
can't  help  it." 

"Overland  —  Mr.  Summers  —  does  n't  take 
life  very  seriously,  does  he?"  asked  Louise. 

"Not  as  seriously  as  life  has  taken  him,  at  odd 
times." 

"You  brought  Collie  in  your  car,  did  n't  you?  " 

"Yes." 

"He's  much  better?" 
318 


Two  Roses 

"Yes.  But  he's  pretty  shaky  yet.  He's  a  little 
queer,  in  fact.  As  we  came  up  the  canon  he  asked 
me  to  stop  the  car  by  the  cliff,  near  this  end,  — 
that  place  where  the  sunlight  conies  through  a 
kind  of  notch  in  the  west.  I  thought  he  was  tired 
of  the  motion  of  the  car,  so  we  stopped  and  he  lay 
back  looking  at  the  cliff.  Pretty  soon  the  sun 
shot  a  long  ray  past  us  and  it  fairly  splattered 
gold  on  the  canon  wall.  Then  the  shaft  of  sun 
light  went  out.  'It  will  shine  again,'  he  said,  as 
if  I  did  n't  know  that.  Collie 's  a  pretty  sick 


man." 


Later  Winthrop  and  Louise  joined  the  others 
at  the  veranda.  Louise  excused  herself.  She 
searched  a  long  time  before  she  found  another 
rose.  This  time  it  was  a  Colombe  bud,  full,  red, 
and  beautiful.  She  stepped  to  Collie's  window. 
"Boy!  "she  called  softly. 

White  and  trembling,  he  stood  in  the  long 
window  looking  down  at  her.  "I'm  glad  you 
are  home  again,"  she  said. 

He  nodded,  and  glanced  away. 

"Boy!"  she  called  again.  "Catch."  And  she 
tossed  the  rose.  He  caught  it  and  pressed  it  to  his 
lips. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

NIGHT 

EVENING,  placidly  content  with  the  warm 
silence,  departed  lingeringly.  Belated  in 
sects  still  buzzed  in  the  wayside  foliage.  A  bee, 
overtaken  in  his  busy  pilfering  by  the  obliterat 
ing  dusk,  hung  on  a  nodding  mountain  flower,  un- 
f earful  above  the  canon's  emptiness.  An  occa 
sional  bird  ventured  a  boldly  questioning  note 
that  lingered  unfinished  in  the  silence  of  indeci 
sion.  Across  the  road  hopped  a  young  rabbit,  a 
little  rounded  shadow  that  melted  into  the  blur 
of  the  sage.  A  cold  white  fire,  spreading  behind 
the  purple-edged  ranges,  enriched  their  somber 
panoply  with  illusive  enchantments,  ever  chang 
ing  as  the  dim  effulgence  drifted  from  peak  to 
peak.  Shadows  grew  luminous  and  were  gone. 
In  their  stead  wooded  valleys  and  wide  canons 
unfolded  to  the  magic  of  the  moon.  There  was  no 
world  but  night  and  imagination. 

With  many  rustlings  the  quail  huddled  in 
the  live-oaks,  complaining  querulously  until  the 
darkness  silenced  them. 

The  warm,  acrid  fragrance  of  the  hills  was 
drawn  intermittently  across  the  cooler  level  of 

320 


Night 

the  shadowy  road.  A  little  owl,  softly  reiterating 
his  cadences  of  rue,  made  loneliness  as  a  thing 
tangible,  a  thing  groping  in  the  dusk  with  velvet 
hands. 

Then  came  that  hush  of  rest,  that  pause  of  pre 
paration,  as  though  night  hesitated  to  awaken 
her  countless  myrmidons.  With  the  lisping  of  in 
visible  leaves  the  Great  Master's  music-book 
unfolded.  That  low,  orchestral  "F"  —  the  domi 
nant  note  of  all  nature's  melodies  —  sounded  in 
timorous  unison  —  an  experimental  murmuring. 
Repeated  in  higher  octaves,  it  swelled  to  shrill 
confidence,  then  a  hundred,  then  myriad  invisi 
bles  chanted  to  their  beloved  night  or  gossiped  of 
the  mystery  of  stars. 

Then  Night  crept  from  the  deep,  cool  canons  to 
the  starlit  peaks  and  knelt  with  her  sister  hill- 
folk,  Silence  and  Solitude;  knelt,  listening  with 
bowed  head  to  that  ancient  antiphony  of  thank 
fulness  and  praise;  then  rose  and  faced  the 
western  sea. 

Boyar,  the  black  pony,  shook  his  head  with  a 
silvery  jingling  of  rein-chains.  His  sleek  flanks 
glistened  in  the  moonlight.  Louise  curbed  him 
gently  with  hand  and  voice  as  he  stepped  through 
the  wide  gateway  of  the  ranch. 

He  paced  lightly  across  the  first  shallow  ford. 
Then  the  narrowing  walls  of  the  canon  echoed 
his  clean-cut  steps  —  a  patter  of  phantom  hoof- 

321 


Overland  Red 

beats  following  him,  stride  for  stride.  Down  the 
long,  ever-winding  road  they  swung. 

Louise,  impelled  to  dreams  by  the  languorous 
warm  night  and  Boyar's  easy  stride  up  the  steep, 
touched  his  neck  with  the  rein  and  turned  him 
into  the  Old  Meadow  Trail. 

The  tall,  slender  stems  of  the  yucca  and  infre 
quent  clumps  of  dwarfed  cacti  cast  clear-edged 
shadows  on  the  bare,  moonlit  ground.  Boyar, 
sniffing,  suddenly  swung  up  and  pivoted,  his 
fore  feet  hanging  over  sheer  black  emptiness* 
Louise  leaned  forward,  reining  him  round.  Even 
before  his  fore  feet  touched  the  trail  again,  she 
heard  the  sibilant  bur-r-ing  of  the  cold,  uncoiling 
thing  as  it  slid  down  the  blind  shadows  of  the 
hillside. 

"I  shan't  believe  in  omens,"  she  murmured. 

She  reassured  the  trembling  Boyar,  who  fret 
ted  sideways  and  snorted  as  he  passed  the  spot 
where  the  snake  had  been  coiled  in  the  trail. 

At  the  edge  of  the  Old  Meadow  the  girl  dis 
mounted,  allowing  Boyar  to  graze  at  will. 

She  climbed  to  the  low  rounded  rock,  her  erst 
while  throne  of  dreams,  where  she  sat  with  knees 
gathered  to  her  in  her  clasped  hands.  The  pony 
paused  in  his  grazing  to  lift  his  head  and  look  at 
her  with  gently  wondering  eyes. 

The  utter  solitude  of  the  place,  far  above  the 
viewless  valley,  allowed  her  thought  a  horizon 


Night 

impossible  at  the  Moonstone  Rancho.  Alone  she 
faced  the  grave  question  of  making  an  unalter 
able  choice.  Collie  had  asked  her  to  marry  him. 
She  had  evaded  direct  reply  to  his  direct  ques 
tion.  She  knew  of  no  good  reason  why  she  should 
marry  him.  She  knew  of  no  better  reason  why 
she  should  not.  She  thought  she  was  content 
with  being  loved.  She  was,  for  the  moment. 

The  Old  Meadow,  that  had  once  before  re 
vealed  a  sprightly  and  ragged  romance,  slum 
bered  in  the  southern  night;  slumbered  to  awaken 
to  the  hushed  tread  of  men  and  strange  whisper 
ings. 

Down  in  the  valley  the  coyotes  called  dis 
mally,  with  that  infinite  shrill  sadness  of  wild 
things  that  hunger,  and  in  their  wailing  pulsed 
the  eternal  and  unanswerable  "Why?"  challeng 
ing  the  peaceful  stars.  Something  in  their  ques 
tioning  cry  impelled  Louise  to  lift  her  hands  to  the 
night.  "What  is  it?  What  is  it  up  there  —  be 
hind  everything  —  that  never,  never  answers?" 

The  moon  was  lost  somewhere  behind  the 
ragged  peaks.  The  night  grew  deeper.  The  Old 
Meadow,  shadowed  by  the  range  above  it,  grew 
dark,  impenetrable,  a  place  without  boundary  or 
breadth  or  depth. 

"Got  a  match,  kid?" 

Louise  raised  her  head.  Some  one  was  afoot  on 
the  Old  Meadow  Trail.  She  could  hear  the  whis- 

528 


Overland  Red 

per  of  dried  grasses  against  the  boots  of  the  men 
as  another  voice  replied,  "Sure!  Here  you  are." 
And  Louise  knew  that  Collie  was  one  of  the  men. 

About  to  call,  she  hesitated,  strangely  curious 
as  to  who  the  other  man  might  be,  and  why 
Collie  and  he  should  foregather  in  the  Old 
Meadow,  at  night. 

"Never  mind,"  mumbled  the  first  speaker;  "I 
thought  I  wanted  to  smoke,  but  I  don't.  I  want 
to  talk  first  —  about  the  Rose  Girl." 

Louise  tried  to  call  out,  but  she  was  inter 
rupted  by  Overland's  voice.  The  two  men  had 
stopped  at  the  lower  side  of  the  great  rock.  She 
could  hear  them  plainly,  although  she  could  not 
see  them. 

"  Collie  —  we  're  busted.  We  're  done,  Chico. 
I  ain't  said  nothin'  to  Billy  yet.  He 's  got  money, 
anyway.  This  here  only  hits  you  and  me." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Red?" 

"I  mean  that  the  Rose  Girl  Mining  Company, 
Incorporated,  Jack  Summers,  President  and  Gen 
eral  Manager,  don't  belong  to  us  and  never  did. 
We  been  sellin'  stock  that  ain't  ours  and  never 


was." 


"How's  that?" 

"I  was  goin'  to  write.  But  I  ain't  no  hand  to 
write  about  business.  Writin'  po'try  is  bad 
enough.  You  recollec'  them  papers  and  that  dust 
Billy  tried  to  find,  out  there  by  the  track?" 

324 


Night 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I  found  it  all.  Since  the  company  is 
workin'  the  claim  now  and  I  did  n't  have  so  much 
to  do,  I  got  to  thinkin'  of  them  papers.  I  went 
out  there,  paced  her  off  down  the  track,  guessed  at 
about  where  it  was,  and  found  'em." 

"Found  them?" 

"Yes,  sir.  There  was  that  little  bag  almost 
atop  of  the  sand,  account  of  wind  and  rain.  Then 
there  was  a  record  of  the  claim,  our  claim.  It's 
been  filed  on  before.  We  made  a  mistake  and 
filed  on  the  wrong  section.  When  me  and  Billy 
went  to  file,  I  noticed  the  clerk  said  something 
about  havin'  neighbors  on  the  claim  next,  but 
I  was  scared  of  answerin'  too  many  questions,  so 
I  give  him  some  cigars  and  beat  it." 

"Who  owns  our  claim,  then?" 

"That's  the  queer  part  of  it.  You  know  the 
guy  we  give  the  water  to  —  the  one  that  died  out 
there.  He  owns  the  claim,  or  he  did.  It  belongs 
by  rights  to  his  girl  now.  His  name  was  Andre 
Lacharme." 

"Lacharme!" 

"Yes,  Louise's  pa.  Recollect  your  boss  tellin* 
us  as  how  the  Rose  Girl's  daddy  was  missin'  out 
in  the  Mojave?  Then  they  was  a  letter  —  old 
and  'most  wore  out  —  from  Walter  Stone  him 
self.  It  was  to  him  —  her  pa  —  tellin'  him  about 
the  little  Louise  baby  and  askin'  him  to  come  to 

325 


Overland  Red 

the  Moonstone  and  take  a  job  and  quit  pro- 
spectin'.  That's  where  we  stand." 

Louise,  breathless,  listened  and  could  not  be 
lieve  that  she  was  real,  that  this  was  not  a  dream. 
Andre  Lacharme!  Her  father! 

"I  seen  a  lawyer  about  it,"  resumed  Over 
land.  "He  said  it  was  plain  enough  that  the 
claim  belonged  to  the  dead  prospector  or  his  girl, 
now.  You  see,  we  worked  the  claim  and  kep'  up 
the  work  accordin'  to  law.  What  we  made  ain't 
ours,  but  I'm  mighty  glad  it's  hers.  'Course,  we 
earned  what  dust  we  dug,  all  right.  Now  I'm 
leavin'  it  up  to  you.  Do  we  tell  her  or  do  we  say 
nothin',  and  go  on  gettin'  rich?" 

"Why  do  you  put  it  up  to  me?"  asked  Col 
lie. 

"Because,  kid,  you  got  the  most  to  lose.  Your 
chance  is  about  gone  with  the  Rose  Girl  if  you  let 
go  the  gold.  Sabe?  The  little  Rose  Girl  is  wise. 
She  don't  give  two  cents  for  money  —  but  she 
ain't  foolish  enough  to  marry  a  puncher  that's 
workin'  for  wages  on  her  uncle's  ranch.  And 
when  she  gets  all  me  and  Billy  made  and  your 
share,  she  '11  be  rich.  That  won't  be  no  time  for 
you  to  go  courtin'  her.  It  ain't  that  you  ain't 
good  enough  for  any  girl.  But  now'days  things 
is  different.  You  got  to  have  money." 

" Do  you  think  Louise  would  take  the  money?** 
asked  Collie. 


Night 

"I  don't  know.  But  that  ain't  it.  We  either 
give  it  up  —  or  we  don't.  What  do  you  say?" 

"Why  —  to  tell  Louise,  of  course.  I  meant 
that  right  along.  You  ought  to  know  that." 

:<You  givin'  it  up  because  you  had  some  fuss 
with  her,  or  anything  like  that?" 

"No,  Red.  I  say  tell  her,  because  it's  square. 
Did  she  stop  to  ask  questions  when  I  was  in 
trouble?  No.  She  went  to  work  to  help  me, 
quick.  I  guess  we  care  more  for  her  than  a  whole 
carload  of  gold." 

"Well,  I  guess.  Once  I  would  n't  'a'  stopped 
to  worry  about  whose  gold  it  was.  But  knowin' 
the  Rose  Girl,  —  knowin'  what  she  is,  —  why, 
it's  makin'  me  soft  in  me  morals." 

"What  do  we  do  now,  Red?" 

"I'm  goin'  to  beat  it.   Back  to  the  dusty  for 


mine." 


'You  don't  have  to  do  that,  Red." 
"That's  just  why  I'm  a-doin'  it.   I  like  to  do 
what  I  like." 

*  "Quitting  now  seems  like  saying,  'I'm 
whipped,'"  said  Collie.  "Quitting  after  giving 
up  our  money  to  her  looks  like  we  were  sore  — 
even  if  we  do  it  and  smile.  She  would  feel  bad, 
Red.  She'd  think  she  drove  us  off." 

"No,  I  reckon  not.  She'll  see  that  I  always 
been  a  good  daddy  to  you  and  put  you  right  in 
this  case.  It  was  all  right  when  you  had  a  chance. 

327 


Overland  Red 

It  ain't  now.  It  ain't  fair  to  her,  neither,  because 
she's  like  to  stick  to  any  promises  she  might  'a* 
made  you." 

"Why  don't  you  ask  Stone  for  a  job?"  said 
Collie. 

"What?  Me?  After  bein'  President  of  the 
Rose  Girl  Mining  Company,  in  —  Say !  They 's 
no  halfway  house  for  me.  It's  all  or  nothin'0 
Why,  I  don't  even  own  the  Guzzuh.  Could  you 
stand  it  to  see  her  every  day,  and  you  just  a 
puncher  workin'  for  the  Moonstone.  She  would 
smile  and  treat  you  fine,  and  you  'd  be  eatin'  your 
own  heart  out  for  her." 

"No,  I  could  n't,"  said  Collie  slowly.  "Red,  I 
guess  you're  right." 

Collie's  perspective  was  distorted  through  sud 
den  disappointment.  The  old  life  of  the  road  .  . . 
the  vague  to-morrows  of  indolence  .  .  .  the 
sprightly  companionship  of  Overland  Red,  in 
ventive,  eloquent  .  .  . 

"Red,  if  I  come  with  you,  it's  because  I  can't 
stand  seeing  her  —  after  everything  that  has 
happened.  It  is  square  to  her,  too,  I  guess." 

"I  ain't  askin'  you,  Collie,  but  there's  nothin* 
like  ramblin'  to  make  you  forget.  It's  got  hard 
work  beat  to  a  mush,  because  when  you're  ram 
blin'  you  're  'most  always  hungry.  Listen !  Love 
is  when  you  ain't  satisfied.  So  is  a  empty  stomach. 
A  fella 's  got  to  eat.  Do  you  get  that?  " 

328 


Night 

"Yes.  But,  Red,  you  said  you  loved  a  woman 
once.  You  did  n't  forget." 

"No,  kid.  I  did  n't.  Once  I  did  n't  do  nothin' 
else  but  remember.  I  got  over  that.  It's  only 
accidental  to  circumstances  pertainin'  to  the  fact 
that  I  remember  now.  You  never  seen  me  cry  in 
my  soup,  did  you?" 

"But  you're  different." 

"That's  the  blat  every  yearlin'  makes  till  he 
grows  up  and  finds  out  he's  a  cow  jest  like  his 
ma.  I  ain't  different  inside.  And  bleedin'  inside 
is  dangerouser  than  bleedin'  outside.  Listen! 
Remember  the  little  fire  beside  the  track,  when 
we  was  'way  up  in  the  big  hills?  Remember  the 
curve,  like  a  snake  unwindin'  where  she  run  round 
the  hill,  and  nothin'  beyond  but  space  and  the 
sun  drippin'  red  in  the  ocean?  Remember  the 
chicken  we  swiped  and  et  that  night?  And  then 
the  smokes  and  lookin'  up  at  the  stars?  Remem 
ber  that?  Listen! 

"It's  beat  it,  bo,  while  your  feet  are  mates, 
And  we  '11  see  the  whole  United  States. 
With  a  smoke  and  a  pal  and  a  fire  at  night, 
And  up  again  in  the  mornin*  bright, 
With  nothin'  but  road  and  sky  in  sight 
And  nothin'  to  do  but  go. 

44 Then,  beat  it,  bo,  while  the  walkin'  's  good; 
And  the  birds  on  the  wires  is  sawin'  wood. 
If  to-day  ain't  the  finest  for  you  and  me, 
329 


Overland  Red 

There 's  always  to-morrow,  that 's  goin*  to  be* 
And  the  day  after  that  is  a-comin'.   See! 
And  nothin'  to  do  but  go. 

"I'm  the  ramblin*  son  with  the  nervous  feet, 
That  never  was  made  for  a  steady  beat. 
I  had  many  a  job  for  a  little  spell; 
I  been  on  the  bum,  and  I  Ve  hit  it  swell. 
But  there 's  only  one  road  to  Fare-ye-well, 
And  nothin'  to  do  but  go." 

"With  nothing  to  do  but  go,"  whispered 
Collie.  "Red,  we've  always  been  friends?" 

"You  bet  your  return  ticket!" 

"And  we  are  always  going  to  be,"  said  Collie. 
"I  guess  that  settles  it.  I  —  I  wish  Saunders  — 
had  —  finished  me." 

Louise,  numb  from  sitting  still  so  long,  moved 
slightly. 

"What's  that?"  exclaimed  Collie. 

"Jest  some  of  your  little  old  ideas  changin' 
cars,"  replied  Overland.  "You'll  get  used  to 
it." 

"No;  I  heard  something." 

"You'll  be  seein'  things  next.  Got  a  match? 
I  'm  jest  dyin'  for  a  smoke.  Remember  when  she 
give  us  the  makin's  and  you  got  hot  at  me?" 

Overland  cupped  the  flame  in  his  hands  and 
lighted  his  cigarette.  The  soft  glow  of  the  match 
spread  in  the  windless  air,  penetrating  the  dark 
ness.  For  an  instant,  a  breath,  Overland  saw  a 

330 


Night 

startled  face  gazing  down  at  him;  the  white  face 
of  the  Rose  Girl! 

"  Great  Snakes ! "  he  cried,  stepping  back  as  the 
flame  expired. 

"What's  the  matter,  Red?" 

"Nothin'.  I  was  just  thinkin'.  I  burned  my 
-mitt.  Come  on,  Collie.  Brand  'II  find  a  bunk  for 
me  to-night,  I  reckon.  We  '11  tell  the  boss  and  the 
Rose  Girl  all  about  it  to-morrow." 


CHAPTER  XXXH 

MORNING 

SOMETHING'S  goin'  to  happen/'  stated 
Brand  Williams. 

"How's  that?"  queried  Bud  Light. 

"  See  them  two  bosses  —  the  Yuma  colt  and 
Boyar—  ?" 

"Uhuh." 

"Well,  Boyar 's  been  standin'  there  since  day 
light,  saddled.  Nobody  rides  him  but  Miss 
Louise." 

"It's  mighty  early,  but  I  don't  see  nothin* 
strange  about  the  rest  of  it." 

"Wait  a  minute,  Bud.  Did  you  see  Collie  this 
mornin'?  Was  he  all  fixed  up  with  his  hair  jest 
so,  and  his  bandanna  jest  so,  and  his  new  som 
brero  and  his  silver  spurs,  and  them  new  chaps, 
lookin'  mighty  important?  He  saddles  Yuma 
and  ties  her  over  there.  While  he  was  eatin',  the 
Boyar  hoss  trails  his  bridle  over  to  where  Yuma 
is  tied.  There  they  stand  visitin'  like  two  old 
soldiers  on  crutches  instead  of  two  mighty  quick- 
actin'  cayuses.  Now  that  Yuma  hoss  has  kicked 
the  fancy  linin'  out  of  every  cayuse  that  dast 
come  nigh  her.  They  're  all  scared  of  her.  She 's 

332 


Morning 

makin'  an  exception  this  mornin'.  She's  plumb 
friendly  with  Boyar.  That  signifies!  Hosses  can 
see  farther  in  the  dark  than  folks." 

"Signifies  what?" 

"Well,  after  all  the  talk  I  jest  wasted  on  you, 
it  signifies  that  you're  too  thick-headed,  Buddy, 
to  waste  any  more  on.  I  can  learn  you  to  spell  if 
you  wanta  take  lessons." 

"You're  dreamin',  Brand.  Wake  up!  As  to 
spellin'  —  I  'm  spellin'  right  now  while  the  f o'- 
man  is  entertainin'  me." 

"Thanks  for  callin'  my  attention  to  it.  You 
can  take  your  hoss  and  ride  over  to  the  Three 
Oaks.  There's  some  fence  down,  over  at  the 
North  Spring.  I  ain't  dreamin'  about  that." 

Bud  Light  departed,  swearing  to  himself.  He 
disliked  mending  fence.  Williams  knew  it.  The 
cheerful  Bud,  "Reckoned  he  ought  to  'a'  known 
better  than  to  try  to  ride  the  old  man  into  the 
fence.  Next  time  he  would  listen  —  and  mebby 
learn  something." 

Louise,  drawing  on  her  gauntlets,  came  down 
the  broad  steps  of  the  ranch-house.  The  Novem 
ber  air  was  crisp  with  the  tang  of  early  morn 
ing. 

She  was  puzzled  at  finding  Boyar  and  Yuma 
together.  She  noticed  Boyar  had  trailed  his 
bridle  across  the  yard  —  an  unusual  thing  for 
him  to  do,  considering  his  training.  Louise  spoke 

333 


Overland  Red 

to  the  Yuma  colt,  who  sniffed  at  her  gloved  hand. 
The  girl  wondered  why  Collie  had  saddled  Yuma. 
He  usually  rode  one  of  the  ranch  horses  to  work. 
She  wanted  to  talk  with  him  —  to  reason  with 
him;  for  her  knowledge  of  the  previous  night's 
disclosures  worried  and  distressed  her.  She 
thought  Collie's  half  promise  to  Overland  Red  to 
turn  to  their  old  life  had  been  too  easily  made. 
Her  pride  in  him  was  touched.  She  was  hurt,  and 
not  a  little  angry.  She  saw  the  flaw  in  his  ulti 
mate  decision  to  sacrifice  himself  and  his  pros 
pects  through  a  too  stringent  and  quixotic  inter 
pretation  of  his  duty.  To  go  back  to  the  old  life 
again  —  a  tramp! 

But  Collie  was  not  to  be  seen.  However, 
Louise  never  hesitated  long.  Deliberately  she 
untied  the  Yuma  colt  and  swung  into  the  saddle. 
Black  Boyar  seemed  to  realize  something  unusual 
in  her  preference.  He  fretted  as  the  roan  pony 
leaped  sideways  toward  the  gate. 

Louise  knew  that  Collie  would  follow  her.  She 
was  riding  his  pony,  the  Yuma  colt,  and  he  would 
be  fearful  for  the  rider's  safety. 

Collie,  coming  from  the  bunk-house,  glanced 
up  and  saw  Black  Boyar  standing  alone  where  his 
own  pony  had  stood.  This  was  not  an  invitation; 
this  was  daring  him  to  follow. 

He  rode  into  the  canon,  half  conscious  of 
Yuma's  tracks  ahead  of  him.  He  rode  past  the 

334 


Morning 

tracks  as  they  swerved  toward  a  grassy  level  near 
the  stream. 

"Collie!" 

Louise  stood  beside  the  sweating  Yuma,  pat 
ting  the  pony's  neck.  Collie  raised  his  sombrero 
formally. 

Louise  was  bareheaded.  The  clear  morning 
sunlight  enhanced  her  rich  coloring.  Against  the 
misty  gray  of  the  canon  wall,  her  head  in  profile, 
as  she  stood  beside  the  horse,  was  as  delicately 
beautiful  as  that  vision  that  imagination  knows 
full  well  but  may  seldom  realize. 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"Collie,  don't!  Say  anything  but  that.  You 
look  awfully  glum.  Surely  not  because  I  took 
Yuma." 

"No.   Only  I  was  afraid  for  you." 

"So  you  followed  at  break-neck  speed  to  rescue 
the  timorous,  the  despairing,  and-so-forth?" 

"I  can't  joke  like  that  this  morning." 

"Why?  I'm  here,  safe  enough.  Had  break 
fast?"  * 

"Yes.  I  wanted  to  see  you  about  something, 
Louise." 

"All  right.  But  you  are  so  unnaturally  tall  and 
severe  and  judicial  sitting  there  on  Boyar.  You 
look  almost  funereal.  Please  get  down.  Roll  a 
cigarette  and  act  natural.  I  'm  not  going  to  scold 
you,  sir." 

335 


Overland  Red 

"I  wish  you  would." 

"  Why?  What  have  you  been  doing  that  makes 
you  look  so  ashamed  of  yourself.  Tell  me ! " 

"I  did  n't  know  I  was." 

"You  don't  act  naturally.  Is  there  something 
about  me  that  is  different?  Is  that  it?" 

"No,  I  wish  you  was  different,  sometimes." 

"You  do?" 

"No,"  he  said  gently.  "I  don't  wish  you  were 
different.  I  want  to  remember  you  like  you  are." 

"To  remember  me?" 

"Yes,"  he  whispered,  "to  remember  you." 

He  seemed  to  see  regret,  astonishment,  ques 
tioning,  gentle  reproof,  even  a  hint  of  amusement 
in  her  eyes.  But  her  expression  changed  in 
stantly.  "I  think  you  have  something  to  remem 
ber  me  by;  something  you  asked  me  for  once, 
long  ago.  I  sent  it  to  you.  You  have  never 
spoken  of  it  —  acknowledged  it.  I  can't  quite 
forgive  that." 

"Your  glove.  I  know.  I  got  it  here."  And  he 
touched  his  breast.  "I  thought  you  would 
understand." 

"I  do.  But,  Collie,  a  girl  always  likes  to  be 
told  that  she  is  understood,  even  when  she 
knows  it." 

"I  was  going  to  write  about  getting  your 
glove,  at  the  hospital.  I  guess  I  was  too  tired. >f 

"At  the  hospital?" 

336 


Morning 

"Yes.  Red  sent  it  to  me.  Brand  gave  it  to  him 
to  give  to  me  —  that  time." 

"Oh!"  And  Louise  felt  like  retracting  a  little; 
but  sweetly  perverse,  she  obeyed  sheer  instinct. 
"Collie,  do  you  realize  that  I  have  already  asked 
you  to  dismount?  Shall  I  have  to  ask  you  again? 
Do  you  realize  that  I  am  standing  while  you  are 
sitting  your  horse?" 

"I  am  begging  your  pardon,  Louise." 

The  girl  nodded  brightly,  smiling  as  she  noticed 
the  little  scar  on  his  chin  —  a  wound  that  she  had 
made  him  blush  for  when  she  had  admonished 
him  for  fighting  with  Dick  Tenlow. 

She  watched  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  muscles  of 
his  arm,  beneath  his  flannel  shirt,  as  he  lighted 
his  cigarette.  How  broad-chested  and  strong  and 
wholesome  he  seemed  in  the  morning  sunlight! 
There  was  an  untamed  grace  about  his  move 
ments,  his  gestures,  which,  together  with  his 
absolute  unconsciousness  of  self,  pleased  and 
attracted  her. 

"  Yuma  is  a  little  wild,  but  she  is  a  fine  saddle- 
pony.  I  'm  really  jealous  for  Boyar's  prestige." 

"I  was  afraid  for  you  to  ride  her,"  said  Collie. 

"She  behaves  beautifully." 

"  Would  you  take  her  as  a  kind  of  present  from 
me?"  he  asked. 

"Give  Yuma  to  me?  I  thought  you  loved 
her?" 

337 


Overland  Red 

"I  do.  That's  why  I  want  you  to  have  her/* 

"He  would  give  you  away,"  said  Louise, 
stroking  Yuma's  neck.  "Give  you  away  just  as 
you're  learning  to  trust  him  and  perhaps  even 
like  him  a  little  —  and  he  says  he  loves  you ! 
Let's  run  away  from  him,  Hummingbird!" 

"I  think  I  could  stand  it  if  you  would  just  be 
mean  once,"  said  Collie. 

"Stand  what,  Collie?" 

He  had  been  watching  her  shapely  hand  and 
supple,  rounded  wrist  as  she  stroked  the  pony's 
neck.  Swiftly  she  turned  from  the  horse  and 
faced  him.  "What,  Collie?"  There  was  laughter 
in  her  eyes,  a  laughter  that  challenged  more  than 
his  serious  mood.  Her  lips  were  smiling.  Her 
chin  was  tilted  provokingly. 

His  eyes  grew  wide  with  unspoken  love, 
unuttered  longing.  He  delighted  in  the  delicious 
curve  of  her  cheek,  and  of  her  arm  resting  on 
the  saddle.  Her  poise  had  an  inexplicable  sug 
gestion  of  royal  courage,  as  though  she  were 
battling  for  more  than  her  lips  could  utter.  In 
her  absence  he  had  adored  her.  Now  he  forgot 
all  that  he  had  meant  to  tell  her  in  the  sensuous 
delight  of  her  mere  presence.  But  even  that 
was  not  enough.  He  dropped  the  pony's  reins 
and  strode  toward  her.  Louise  paled  even  as  he 
drew  near,  but  he  saw  nothing  but  her  eyes  and 
her  lips,  lips  that  curved  wistfully,  provoking 

338 


CAN'T  I   HAVE  ANOTHER  ONE,    ROSE   GIRL  ? 


Morning 

tenderness  and  love.  For  an  instant  Louise  held 
her  heart  aloof. 

"Let  me  just  worship  you  —  a  little  while  —  a 
little  while,"  he  whispered. 

"Only  a  little  while?"  she  breathed;  and  the 
soft  rose  glowed  in  her  cheeks. 

"Just  forever,"  he  said. 

And  Louise  Lacharme,  more  beautiful  than  the 
morning,  Louise,  his  most  gracious  seiiorita,  his 
Madonna  of  the  Rose,  lifted  her  arms  to  him. 
Her  lips  quivered  like  a  child's,  tremulous  with 
longing  to  tell  him  silently,  as  his  lips  found  hers, 
all  that  her  heart  was  giving  and  all  the  wealth  of 
love  it  yet  should  give. 

Gently  his  hands  clasped  her  golden  head.  His 
whole  being  thrilled  as  he  touched  her  hair,  her 
cheeks,  her  lips.  "Oh,  Collie!  Collie!  Love  me 
always,"  she  whispered.  And  she  drew  him 
down  to  her  breast  and  caressed  his  cheek,  sigh 
ing  and  murmuring  little  endearments  and  sweet,, 
broken  words  of  love. 

Moonstone  Canon,  coldly  beautiful,  echoed 
the  hoof-beats  of  the  ponies  as  they  walked 
homeward. 

Louise  turned  in  the  saddle.  "  Collie,"  she  said 
with  an  indescribable  gesture  of  appeal,  "you 
will  always  take  care  of  me,  won't  you?" 

"My  Rose  Girl!  Why  do  you  say  that?" 
339 


Overland  Red 

w I  was  thinking  of  my  father." 

Louise  saw  his  lips  stiffen  and  his  chin  lift. 
"  Louise,  I  had  no  right,  just  now,  —  I  have  n't 
any  right  —  I'm  poor.  The  claim  was  n't  ours." 

"I  did  n't  mean  that,"  she  said,  smiling  wist 
fully.  "But  you  will  always  care  for  me,  won't 
you?  I  don't  care  one  bit  about  the  claim.  It  has 
made  trouble  and  sorrow  enough.  I  can't  remem 
ber  my  father.  I  can  hardly  think  of  him  as  my 
father.  But  it  is  horrible  to  think  of  his  dying  for 
water  because  he  cared  so  much  for  gold." 

"But  how  did  you  know?" 

"I  know,"  she  answered  gravely.  "And  I 
know  that  you  are  a  very,  very  foolish  boy,  not  to 
trust  your  friends  more  than  you  do.  Did  you 
suppose  you  would  be  happier  or  better  in  leaving 
Moonstone  Rancho?  Did  you  suppose  I  would 
be  happier?  Collie,  you  have  so  much  to  learn." 

"I  guess  that's  so,"  he  sighed.  Then  his  eyes 
brightened  with  his  old-time  mischief.  "  Could  n't 
you  begin  now  to  teach  me  a  little  —  like  back 
there  in  the  canon?" 

And  being  of  a  decisive  habit  of  mind,  he  rode 
close'  to  Louise  and  claimed  immediate  and 
delicious  instruction. 

"But  how  did  you  know?"  he  asked  again  — 
"about  the  claim  and  your  father  and  me?" 

"A  secret  that  I  share  with  Overland,"  she 
replied. 

340 


Morning 

"So  he  told  you!  When?  Not  last  night.  He 
was  asleep  when  I  came  away  this  morning." 

"So  he  is  here,  then?" 

"Louise,  you're  joking.  Didn't  Red  talk  to 
you?'5 

"No." 

"And  you  know  all  about  it  already?"  He 
looked  at  her  curiously  for  a  moment.  "Did  you 
know  that  I  said  I  was  going  to  leave  the  Moon 
stone?" 

"Why?" 

"For  the  same  reason  that  I  can't  now  —  you. 
Red  and  Billy  Winthrop  and  I  don't  own  a  cent's 
worth  of  the  claim  now.  I  don't  even  own 
what's  in  the  bank.  All  I  got  is  Yuma." 

"You  gave  Yuma  to  me,  Collie." 

"  I  sure  did.  I  have  n't  even  her.  But  I  've  got 
you.  Oh,  Louise !  I  can't  believe  it.  I  could  just 
shout.  Can't  I  have  another  one,  Rose  Girl?" 

"Must  I  teach  you  not  to  ask?"  said  Louise. 

Collie  took  her  other  meaning  as  she  made  a 
little  mouth  at  him.  "Not  after  this,"  he  said, 
and  gave  apt  proof  that  he  meant  it. 

"More  than  a  whole  carload  of  gold?"  she 
asked,  gazing  at  him. 

"You  know  that,  too?" 

"Collie?" 

"What  is  it?" 

"Promise  that  you  won't  speak  to  any  one 
341 


Overland  Red 

about  the  claim,  or  the  desert,  or  my  father  until 

I  say  you  may." 

"Of  course  I  promise." 

"Nor  about  ourselves,  until  I  tell  you  to." 

"Never  —  if  it  will  make  you  happy." 

Overland  Red,  sitting  on  a  boulder  beside  the 
road,  stooped  and  gathered  up  a  handful  of 
pebbles.  Then,  for  lack  of  other  interest,  he 
invented  a  game  of  ancient  and  honorable  origin. 
"She  loves  me,"  he  said  tossing  away  a  pebble. 
"  She  loves  me  not."  And  up  spun  another  pebble. 
So  he  continued  until  the  pebbles  were  gone. 
"She  loves  me  not,"  he  muttered  lugubriously. 
Then  his  face  brightened.  "Of  course  she  don't. 
She  loves  him.  That 's  what  I  was  try  in'  to  get  at, 
anyway." 

He  fumbled  at  a  huge  bunch  of  little  red 
flowers  called  "Hummingbird's  Trumpets."  He 
arranged  the  hastily  constructed  bouquet  to  suit 
him.  Then  he  laid  it  on  the  rock. 

"Accordin'  to  the  latest  book  on  good  table- 
manners,  or  'How  to  Be  Happy  Though  Dressed 
Up,'  this  here  bouquet  is  the  proper  thing. 
They  '11  think  I  'm  some  wiz'  when  I  step  out  and 
present  these  here  hummin'birds'  bugles.  Huh! 
I  seen  the  two  hosses  gone,  and  I  gets  wise  direct. 
But  I  got  to  brace  up.  Wonder  what  she  '11  think 
about  me  —  after  hearin'  what  I  said  last  night 

342 


Morning 

at  the  Old  Meadow?  Gee!  I  wonder  what  I  did 
say?  Did  I  cuss  much?  I  forget.  H-m-m.  Good- 
mornin',  folks!  I  —  er  —  This  here  —  Them 
hummin'birds'  bugles  —  flowers  —  Happy  day 
—  Collie,  what's  wrong  with  you?  What  you 
laughin'  at?" 

"You,  of  course.  Where  did  you  get  the 
posies?" 

"Picked  'em  along  the  Golden  Shore.  Just  got 
back." 

"You  do  look  scared,  Red." 

"Seein'  you're  gettin'  personal  —  you  need  n't 
to  think  because  you  just  been  there  that  I  never 
will." 

"Say,  Overland  —  I  —  we  — "  began  Collie. 

"I  knowed  it!  I  won't  say  a  word  to  nobody.'5 

Collie  glanced  at  Louise.  She  nodded.  Then 
she  gave  Overland  her  hand.  He  seized  it  and 
stood  looking  into  her  sweet  gray  eyes.  "Little 
Rose  Girl,"  he  said  quietly,  "you  always  was 
the  best  and  kindest  and  beautifullest  we  ever 
knowed.  It  ain't  the  first  time  you  give  your 
hand  to  help  them  that  ain't  fit  to  touch  it.  If 
there  is  any  Golden  Shore,  I  guess  me  and  Collie 
will  be  there  just  because  we  knowed  you  down 
here  and  could  n't  stay  around,  nohow,  where 
you  was  n't.  And,  believe  me,  if  he  don't  treat 
you  from  now  on  like  you  was  a  plumb  angel, 
I  '11  —  I  '11  ride  him  off  the  big  range  and  into 

843 


Overland  Red 

space  quicker  ?n  shootin'  stars!  These  here 
flowers  is  for  you  —  not  for  that  long-legged 
grasshopper  ridin'  your  hoss  there.  I  should 
think  Boyar  would  be  plumb  ashamed." 

"Then  Collie  can  walk,"  said  Louise  promptly, 
"Collie,  will  you  please  let  Mr.  Summers  take 
Boyar?  I  want  to  talk  with  the  President  of  —  of 
my  mine  a  little  while." 

"Don't  faint,  Chico,"  said  Overland,  swinging 
into  the  saddle.  "I  always  was  the  'cute  little 
gopher  with  the  ladies.  You  watch  us  ride  up  this 
trail  if  you  want  to  see  a  pair  that  can  ride." 

Collie  shook  his  fist  at  the  grinning  Overland, 
who  had  turned  as  he  rode  away.  "You  want  to 
learn  to  act  quick  when  a  lady  asks  you,"  called 
Overland.  "You  did  n't  get  off  this  hoss  any  too 
spry." 

Then  Collie  stooped  and  picked  up  a  little  red 
flower  that  had  dropped  from  the  boisterous 
one's  offering. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

A   SPEECH 

riiHE  Marshalls  and  Billy  Winthrop  came  in 
JL  their  car.  The  ride  through  the  canon  had 
been  pleasant.  They  were  talking  about  Over 
land.  They  had  been  discussing  the  rearrange 
ment  of  a  great  many  things  since  the  news  of 
Louise's  heritage  had  become  known. 

"You  had  better  close  the  muffler,  Billy.  You 
are  frightening  that  pony!" 

"That's  the  Yuma  colt,"  said  Winthrop. 
"Overland  is  riding  her." 

"Overland?" 

"Yes.  He's  coming  to  meet  us." 

Plunging  through  the  crackling  greasewood  at 
the  side  of  the  road,  the  Yuma  colt  leaped  toward 
the  car.  In  broad  sombrero,  blue  silk  necker- 
€hief,  blue  flannel  shirt,  and  silver-studded 
leather  chaps,  was  a  strangely  familiar  figure. 
The  great  silver  spurs  rang  musically  as  the  pony 
reared.  The  figure  gave  easily  to  the  wild  plung 
ing  of  the  horse,  yet  was  as  firm  as  iron  in  the 
saddle. 

Anne  drew  a  deep  breath.  It  was  not  the 
grotesque,  frock-coated  Overland  of  a  recent 

345 


Overland  Red 

visit,  nor  was  it  the  ragged,  unkempt  vision 
Louise  had  conjured  up  for  her  in  relating  the 
Old  Meadow  story.  In  fact,  it  was  not  Overland 
Red  at  all,  but  Jack  Summers,  the  range-rider  of 
the  old  red  Abilene  days.  He  was  clean-shaven, 
vigorous,  splendidly  strong,  and  confident.  In 
the  saddle,  bedecked  in  his  showy  trappings, 
surrounded  by  his  friends,  Jack  Summers  had 
found  his  youth  again,  and  the  past  was  as  a 
closed  book,  for  the  nonce. 

"I'm  the  boss's  envy  extraordinary,"  said 
Overland,  by  way  of  greeting.  "  Walt  said  some 
thing  else,  too,  about  bein'  a  potentiary,  but  I 
reckon  that  was  a  joke." 

"Good-morning!  Don't  get  down!  Glad  to 
see  you  again!" 

But  Overland  was  in  the  road,  hat  in  hand,  and 
Yuma's  bridle-reins  over  one  arm. 

"'Mornin',  Billy!  'Mornin',  Doctor!  You  run 
right  up  to  the  house.  I  left  the  gate  open." 

Then  Overland  rode  back,  following  them. 
Later  he  reappeared,  minus  spurs  and  chaps,  but 
still  clad  in  the  garb  of  the  range-rider.  He  was 
as  proud  and  happy  as  a  boy.  He  seemed  to 
have  dropped  ten  years  from  his  shoulders.  And 
he  was  strangely  unlike  his  old  boisterous  self 
withal. 

The  noon  sun  crept  through  the  moon-vine. 
Out  on  the  wide  veranda  was  the  long  table* 

346 


A  Speech 

They  were  a  happy  group  at  luncheon  there. 
Even  the  taciturn  Brand  Williams  had  been 
persuaded  to  come.  His  native  picturesqueness 
was  rather  effaced  by  a  black,  characterless  suit 
of  "store  clothes." 

Walter  Stone,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  lunch 
eon,  asked  Overland  to  make  a  speech.  Nothing 
daunted,  Overland  rose  briskly. 

"I  expect  you  're  lookin'  for  me  to  fall  off  the 
roof  of  the  cannery  into  the  tomato-vat  and  make 
a  large  red  splash.  Not  me.  I  got  somethin*  to 
say.  Now  the  difference  in  droppin'  a  egg  on  the 
kitchen  floor  and  breakin'  it  calm-like,  in  a  sau 
cer,  ain't  only  the  muss  on  the  floor.  You  save 
the  egg.  Just  recent  I  come  nigh  to  losin'  my 
whole  basket.  You  all  know  who  saved  'em.  Not 
namin'  any  names,  the  same  person,  by  jest  bein' 
herself,  and  kind  to  everybody,  put  me  wise  to 
the  fact  that  money  and  clothes  ain't  all  that 
goes  to  make  a  man.  And,  at  the  same  time, 
speakin'  kind  of  orthodoxical,  money  and  clothes 
has  a  whole  lot  to  do  with  makin'  a  man.  I  just 
got  hep  to  that  idea  recent. 

"Speakin'  of  clothes  leads  me  to  remark  that 
I  got  a  new  outfit  up  at  the  bunk-house.  It's  a 
automobilein'  outfit.  Billy  says  it's  the  correc' 
thing.  He  helped  me  pick  it  out.  Which  leads 
Billy  into  this  here  thing,  too.  He  said  to  break 
the  news  gentle,  and  not  scare  anybody  to  death 

347 


Overland  Red 

and  not  get  'em  to  thinkin'  that  somebody  was 
hurt  or  anything  like  that,  so  I'm  breakin'  it  to 
you  easy.  Me  and  Billy  is  goin'  away.  We're 
goin'  in  the  Guzzuh  —  '  God  save  the  mush/  as 
the  pote  says.  We  are  the  Overland  Red  Tower- 
ist  and  Observation  Company,  Unlimited.  We 
are  goin' 

"'Round  the  world  and  back  again; 
Heel  and  toe  in  sun  and  rain'  — 

as  another  pote  says.  Only  we  ride.  I  ain't  got 
nothin'  to  say  about  gettin'  married,  or  happy 
days,  or  any  of  that  ordinary  kind  of  stuff.  I 
want  to  drink  the  health  of  my  friends.  I  got  so 
many  and  such  good  ones  that  I  dassent  to  in 
criminate  any  particular  one;  so  I  say,  lookin'  at 
your  faces  like  roses  and  lilies  and  —  and  faces, 
I  say,  — 

"'Here's  to  California,  the  darling  of  the  West, 
A  blessin'  on  those  livin'  here  — 
And  God  help  all  the  rest.'" 

Overland  sat  down  amid  applause.  He  located 
his  tobacco  and  papers,  rolled  a  cigarette  with  one 
hand,  and  gazed  across  the  hills.  Glancing  up,  he 
saw  Louise  looking  at  him.  He  smiled.  "I  was 
settin'  on  a  crazy  bronc'  holdin'  his  head  up  so  he 
could  n't  go  to  buckin'  —  outside  a  little  old 
adobe  down  in  Yuma,  Arizona,  then.  Did  you 
ever  drift  away  like  that,  just  from  some  little 
old  trick  to  make  you  dream?" 

348 


A  Speech 

At  a  nod  from  Aunt  Eleanor  they  all  rose. 

Louise  stepped  from  her  end  of  the  table  to 
where  Overland  stood  gazing  out  across  the  hills. 
She  touched  him  lightly  on  the  arm.  He  turned 
and  looked  at  her  unseeingly.  His  eyes  were 
filled  with  the  dreams  of  his  youth,  dreams  that 
had  not  come  true  .  .  .  and  yet  .  .  .  He  gazed 
down  into  her  face.  His  expression  changed.  His 
eyes  grew  misty  with  happiness.  He  realized 
how  many  friends  he  had  and  how  loyal  and  ex 
cellent  they  were.  And  of  all  that  he  had  gained 
his  greatest  treasure  was  his  love  for  Louise  — 
for  Louise  Lacharme,  the  little  Rose  Girl  of  his 
dreams.  That  love  lay  buried  deep  in  his  rugged 
heart.  She  would  never  know  of  it.  No  one 
should  ever  know  —  not  even  Collie. 

Louise,  in  an  ecstasy  of  affection  and  pity  that 
she  could  not  understand,  suddenly  flung  her 
arms  around  Overland's  neck  and  kissed  him 
full  on  the  lips. 

More  than  he  had  ever  dared  to  dream  had 
come  true. 


THE    END 


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THE  BARON  OF  DIAMOND  TAIL 

The  Elk  Mountain  Cattle  Co.  had  not  paid  a  dividend  in  years  ; 
so  Edgar  Barrett,  fresh  from  the  navy,  was  sent  West  to  see  what 
was  wrong  at  the  ranch.  The  tale  of  this  tenderfoot  outwitting  the 
buckaroos  at  their  own  play  will  sweep  you  into  the  action  of  this 
salient  western  novel. 

THE  BONDBOY 

Joe  Newbolt,  boutid  out  by  force  of  family  conditions  to  work  for 
a  number  of  years,  is  accused  of  murder  and  circumstances  are 
against  him.  His  mouth  is  sealed;  he  cannot,  as  a  gentleman,  utter 
the  words  that  would  clear  him.  A  dramatic,  romantic  tale  of  intense 
interest. 

CLAIM  NUMBER  ONE 

Dr.  Warren  Slavens  drew  claim  number  one,  which  entitled  him 
to  first  choice  of  rich  lands  on  an  Indian  reservation  in  Wyoming.  It 
meant  a  fortune  ;  but  before  he  established  his  ownership  he  had  a 
hard  battle  with  crooks  and  politicians. 

THE  DUKE  OF  CHIMNEY  BUTTE 

When  Jerry  Lambert,  "the  Duke,"  attempts  to  safeguard  the 
cattle  ranch  of  Vesta  Philbrook  from  thieving  neighbors,  his  work  is 
appallingly  handicapped  because  of  Grace  Kerr,  one  of  the  chief  agi 
tators,  and  a  deadly  enemy  of  Vesta's.  A  stirring  tale  of  brave  deeds, 
gun-play  and  a  love  that  shines  above  all. 

THE  FLOCKMASTER  OF  POISON  CREEK 

John  Mackenzie  trod  the  trail  from  Jasper  to  the  great  sheep 
country  where  fortunes  were  being  made  by  the  flock-masters. 
Shepherding  was  not  a  peaceful  pursuit  in  those  bygone  days.  Ad 
venture  met  him  at  every  turn — there  is  a  girl  of  course — men  fight 
their  best  fights  for  a  woman — it  is  an  epic  of  the  sheeplands. 

THE  LAND  OF  LAST  CHANCE 

Jim  Timberlake  and  Capt.  David  Scott  waited  with  restless 
thousands  on  the  Oklahoma  line  for  the  signal  to  dash  across  the 
border.  How  the  city  of  Victory  arose  overnight  on  the  plains,  how 
people  savagely  defended  their  claims  against  the  "sooners;  "  how 
good  men  and  bad  played  politics,  makes  a  strong  story  of  growth 
and  American  initiative. 

TRAIL'S  END 

Ascalon  was  the  end  of  the  trail  for  thirsty  cowboys  who  gave 
vent  to  their  pent-up  feelings  without  restraint.  Calvin  Morgan  was 
not  concerned  with  Its  wickedness  until  Seth  Craddock's  malevolence 
directed  itself  against  him.  He  did  not  emerge  from  the  maelstrom 
nmtil  he  had  obliterated  every  vestige  of  lawlessness,  and  assured 
himself  of  the  safety  of  a  certain  dark-eyed  girl. 

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THE  EVERLASTING  WHISPER 

The  story  of  a  strong  man's  struggle  against  savage  nature  and  human* 
ity,  and  of  a  beautiful  girl's  regeneration  from  a  spoiled  child  of  weakh  into 
a  courageous  strong-willed  woman. 

DESERT  VALLEY 


A  college  professor  sets  out  with  his  daughter  to  find  gold.     They 

a  rancher  who  loses  his  heart,  and  become  involved  in  a  feud.    An  intensely 
exciting  story. 

MAN  TO  MAN 

Encircled  with  enemies,  distrusted,  Steve  defends  his  rights.  How  he 
won  his  game  and  the  girl  he  loved  is  the  story  filled  with  breathlesf 
tttuations. 

THE  BELLS  OF  SAN  JUAN 

Dr.  Virginia  Page  is  forced  to  go  with  th«  sheriff  on  a  night  journey 
into  the  strongholds  of  a  lawless  band.  Thrills  and  excitement  sweep  the 
teader  along  to  the  end. 

JUDITH  OF  BLUE  LAKE  RANCH 

Judith  Sanford  part  owner  of  a  cattle  ranch  realizes  she  is  being  robbed 
by  her  foreman.  How,  with  the  help  of  Bud  Lee,  she  checkmates  Trevor'* 
scheme  makes  fascinating  reading. 

THE  SHORT  CUT 

Wayne  is  suspected  of  killing  his  brother  after  a  violent  quarrel.  Finan 
cial  complications,  villains,  a  horse-race  and  beautiful  Wanda,  all  go  to  make 
up  a  thrilling  romance. 

THE  JOYOUS  TROUBLE  MAKER 

A  reporter  sets  up  housekeeping  close  to  Beatrice's  Ranch  much  to  he? 
chagrin.  There  is  "  another  man "  who  complicates  matters,  but  all  turns 
out  as  it  should  in  this  tale  of  romance  and  adventure. 

SIX  FEET  FOUR 

Beatrice  Waverly  is  robbed  of  $5,000  and  suspicion  fastens  upon  Buck 
Thornton,  but  she  soon  realizes  he  is  not  guilty.  Intensely  exciting,  here  is  * 
teal  story  of  the  Great  Far  West. 

WOLF  BREED 

No  Luck  Drennan  had  grown  hard  through  loss  of  faith  in  men  he  had 
trusted.  A  woman  hater  and  sharp  of  tongue,  he  finds  a  match  in  Ygerne 
whose  clever  fencing  wins  the  admiration  and  love  of  the  "  Lone  Wolf." 

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blood  in  his  veins — there's  a  tale  that  Kyne  can  tell!  And 
"  the  girl "  is  also  very  much  in  evidence. 

KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

Donald  McKay,  son  of  Hector  McKay,  millionaire  lum 
ber  king,  fails  in  love  with  "  Nan  of  the  Sawdust  Pile,"  a 
charming  girl  who  has  been  ostracized  by  her  townsfolk. 

THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  GIANTS   ' 

The  fight  of  the  Cardigans,  father  and  son,  to  hold  the 
Valley  of  the  Giants  against  treachery.  The  reader  finishes 
with  a  sense  of  having  lived  with  big  men  and  women  in  a 
big  country. 

GAPPY  RICKS 

The  story  of  old  Gappy  Ricks  and  of  Matt  Peasley,  th> 
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good  for  his  soul. 

WEBSTER:  MAN'S  MAN 

In  a  little  Jim  Crow  Republic  in  Central  America,  a  man 
and  a  woman,  hailing  from  the  "  States,"  met  up  with  a 
revolution  and  for  a  while  adventures  and  excitement  came 
so  thick  and  fast  that  their  love  affair  had  to  wait  for  a  lull 
in  the  game. 

CAPTAIN  SCRAGGS 

This  sea  yarn  recounts  the  adventures  of  three  rapscal- 
lion  sea-faring  men — a  Captain  Scraggs,  owner  of  the  green 
vegetable  freighter  Maggie,  Gibney  the  mate  and  MeGuff- 
ney  the  engineer. 

THE  LONG  CHANCE 

A  story  fresh  from  the  heart  of  the  West,  of  San  Pasqual, 
a  sun-baked  desert  town,  of  Harley  P.  Hennage,  the  best 
gambler,  the  best  and  worst  man  of  San  Pasqual  and  of 
lovely  Donna. 

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THE  NOVELS  OF 

GRACE    LIVINGSTON     HILL 

(MRS.  LUTZ) 

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BEST  MAN,  THE 
CLOUDY  JEWEL 
DAWN  OF  THE  MORNING 
ENCHANTED  BARN,  THE 
EXIT  BETTY 

FINDING  OF  JASPER  HOLT,  THE 
GIRL  FROM  MONTANA.  THE 
LO,  MICHAEL  ! 
MAN  OF  THE  DESERT,  THE 
MARCIA  SCHUYLER 
MIRANDA 

MYSTERY  OF  MARY.  THE 
OBSESSION  OF  VICTORIA  GRACEN.  THE 
PHOEBE  DEANE 
RED  SIGNAL.  THE 
SEARCH,  THE 
TRYST,  THE 

VOICE  IN  THE  WILDERNESS,  A 
WITNESS,  THE 

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RUBY   M.    AYRES'    NOVELS 

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THE  MAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART 

Why  was  Barbara  held  captive  in  a  deserted  hermit's  hut  for  days  by  a  "  man 
without  a  heart  "  and  in  the  end  how  was  it  that  she  held  the  winning  cards. 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  ROGUE 

Twenty-four  hours  after  his  release  from  prison  Bruce  Lawn  finds  himself  play 
ing-  a  most  surprising:  role  in  a  drama  of  human  relationships  that  sweeps  on  to  a 
wonderfully  emotional  climax. 

THE  MATHERSON  MARRIAGE 

She  married  for  money.  With  her  own  hands  she  had  locked  the  door  on  hap 
piness  and  thrown  away  the  key.  But,  read  the  story  which  is  very  interesting:  and 
well  told. 

RICHARD  CHATTERTON 

A  fascinating  story  in  which  love  and  jealousy  play  strange  tricks  with  women's 
souls. 

A  BACHELOR  HUSBAND 

Can  a  woman  love  two  men  at  the  same  time  ? 

In  its  solving-  of -this  particular  variety  of  triangle  "A  Bachelor  Husband"  will 
particularly  interest,  and  strangely  enough,  without  one  shock  to  the  most  conven 
tional  minded. 

THE  SCAR 

With  fine  comprehension  and  insight  the  author  shows  a  terrific  contrast  be 
tween  the  woman  whose  love  was  of  the  flesh  and  one  whose  love  was  of  the  spirit. 

THE  MARRIAGE  OF   BARRY  WICKLOW 

Here  is  a  man  and  woman  who,  marrying  for  love,  yet  try  to  build  their  wedded 
life  upon  a  gospel  of  hate  for  each  other  and  yet  win  back  to  a  greater  love  for  each 
other  in  the  end. 

THE  UPHILL  ROAD 

The  heroine  of  this  story  was  a  consort  of  thieves.  The  man  was  fine,  clean, 
fresh  from  the  West.  It  is  a  story  of  strength  and  passion. 

WINDS  OF  THE  WORLD 

Jill,  a  poor  little  typist,  marries  the  great  Henry  Sturgess  and  inherits  millions, 
but  not  happiness.  Then  at  last — but  we  must  leave  that  to  Ruby  M.  Ayres  to  tell 
you  as  only  she  can. 

THE  SECOND  HONEYMOON 

In  this  story  the  author  has  produced  a  book  which  no  one  who  has  loved  or 
hopes  to  love  can  afford  to  miss.  The  story  fairly  leaps  from  climax  to  climax.  • 

THE  PHANTOM  LOVER 

Have  you  not  often  heard  of  someone  being  in  love  with  love  rather  than  the 
person  they  believed  the  object  of  their  affections  ?  That  was  Esther !  But  she 
passes  through  the  crisis  into  a  deep  and  profound  love. 

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BOOTH     TARKINGTON'S 
NOVELS 

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SEVENTEEN.    Illustrated  by  Arthur  William  Brown.        , 

No  one  but  the  creator  of  Penrod  could  have  portrayed 
'>the  immortal  young  people  of  this  story.  Its  humor  is  irre 
sistible  and  reminiscent  of  the  time  when  the  reader  was 
Seventeen. 

PENROD.    Illustrated  by  Gordon  Grant. 

This  is  a  picture  of  a  boy's  heart,  full  of  the  lovable,  hu 
morous,  tragic  things  which  are  locked  secrets  to  most  older 
folks.  It  is  a  finished,  exquisite  work. 

PENRQD  AND  SAM.  Illustrated  by  Worth  Brehm. 

Like  "  Penrod "  and  "  Seventeen,"  this  book  contains 
Borne  remarkable  phases  of  real  boyhood  and  some  of  the  best 
stories  of  juvenile  prankishness  that  have  ever  been  written. 

THE  TURMOIL.    Illustrated  by  C.  E.  Chambers. 

Bibbs  Sheridan  is  a  dreamy,  imaginative  youth,  who  re 
volts  against  his  father's  plans  for  him  to  be  a  servitor  of 
big  business.  The  love  of  a  fine  girl  turns  Bibb's  life  from 
failure  to  success. 

THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA.    Frontispiece. 

A  story  of  love  and  politics, — more  especially  a  picture  of 
a  country  editor's  life  in  Indiana,  but  the  charm  of  the  book 
lies  hi  the  love  interest. 

THE  FLIRT.    Illustrated  by  Clarence  F.  Underwood. 

The  "  Flirt,"  the  younger  of  two  sisters,  breaks  one  girl's 

^engagement,  drives  one  man  to  suicide,  causes  the  murder 

jof  another,  leads  another  to  lose  his  fortune,  and  in  the  end 

I  marries  a  stupid  and  unpromising  suitor,  leaving  the  realty 

worthy  one  to  marry  her  sister. 

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KATHLEEN   NORRIS'  STORIES 

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SISTERS.   Frontispiece  by  Frank  Street. 

The  California  Redwoods  furnish  the  background  for  this 
beautiful  story  of  sisterly  devotion  and  sacrifice. 

POOR.  DEAR.  MARGARET  KIRBY. 
Frontispiece  by  George  Gibbs. 

A  collection  of  delightful  stories,  including  "Bridging  the 
Ye*rs "  and  "The  Tide-Marsh."  This  story  is  now  shown  ir 
moving  pictures. 

JQSSELYN'S  WIFE.  Frontispiece  by  C.  Allan  Gilbert. 

The  story  of  a  beautiful  woman  who  fought  a  bitter  fight  foi 
happiness  and  love. 

MARTIE,  THE  UNCONQUERED. 
Illustrated  by  Charles  E.  Chambers. 
The  triumph  of  a  dauntless  spirit  over  adverse  conditions. 

THE  HEART  OF  RACHAEL. 
Frontispiece  by  Charles  E.  Chambers. 

An  interesting  story  of  divorce  and  the  problems  that  come 
vvith  a  second  marriage. 

THE  STORY  OF  JULIA  PAGE. 
Frontispiece  by  C.  Allan  Gilbert. 

A  sympathetic  portrayal  of  the  quest  of  a  normal  girl,  obscure 
and  lonely,  for  the  happiness  of  life. 

SATURDAY'S  CHILD.    Frontispiece  by  F.  Graham  Cootes 

Can  a  girl,  born  in  rather  sordid  conditions,  lift  herself  through 
iheer  determination  to  the  better  things  for  which  her  sou! 
hungered  ? 

MOTHER.'  Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

A  story  of  the  big  mother  heart  that  beats  in  the  background 
of  every  girl's  life,  and  some  dreams  which  came  true. 

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STORIES  OF  RARE  CHARM  BY 

GENE  STRATTON-PORTER 

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THE  WHITE  FLAG. 

How  a  youngr  girl,  singlehanded,  fought  against  the  power  of  the  More- 
lands  who  held  the  town  of  Ashwater  in  their  grip. 

HER  FATHER'S  DAUGHTER. 

This  story  is  of  California  and  tells  of  that  charming1  girl,  Linda  Strong, 
otherwise  known  as  "  Her  Father's  Daughter." 

A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  LAND. 

Kate  Bates,  the  heroine  of  this  story,  is  a  true  "  Daughter  of  the  Laadu* 
attd  to  read  about  her  is  truly  inspiring. 

MICHAEL  O'HALLORAN. 

Michael  is  a  quick-witted  little  Irish  newsboy,  living  in  Northern  Indiana. 
He  adopts  a  deserted  little  girl,  a  cripple.  He  also  aspires  to  lead  the  entire 
rural  community  upward  and  onward. 

LADDIE. 

This  is  a  bright,  cheery  tale  with  the  scenes  laid  in  Indiana.  The  story  is 
told  by  Little  Sister,  the  youngest  member  of  a  large  family,  but  it  is  coa- 
cerned  not  so  much  with  childish  doings  as  with  the  love  affairs  of  oldw 
members  of  the  family, 

THE  HARVESTER. 

"The  Harvester,"  is  a  man  of  the  woods  and  fields,  and  is  well  worth 
knowing,  but  when  the  Girl  comes  to  his  "  Medicine  Woods,"  there  begins  a 
romance  of  the  rarest  idyllic  quality. 

FRECKLES. 

Freckles  is  a  nameless  waif  when  the  tale  opens,  but  the  way  in  which  he 
takes  hold  of  life  ;  the  nature  friendships  he  forms  ;  and  his  love-story  with 
"  The  Angel  "  are  full  of  real  sentiment. 

A  GIRL  OF  THE  LIMBERLOST. 

The  story  of  a  girl  of  the  Michigan  woods  ;  a  buoyant,  toveable  type  ol 
ti>«  self-reliant  American.  Her  philosophy  is  one  of  love  and  kindness  toward 
ail  tkings  ;  her  hope  is  never  dimmed. 

AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  RAINBOW. 

,1        The  scene  of  this  charming  love  story  is  laid  in  Central  Indiana.  It  is  one 
ol  devoted  friendship,  and  tender  self-sacrificing  love. 

'THE  SONG  OF  THE  CARDINAL. 

The  love  idyl  of  the  Cardinal  and  his  mate,  told  with  rare  delicacy  and 
humor. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,          PUBLISHERS,          NEW  YORK 


Records  the  many  wonderful  exploits  by  which  Tarzan  proves 
his  right  to  ape  kingship. 


EDGAR    RICE   BURROUGH'S 
NOVELS 

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TARZAN  AND  THE  GOLDEN  LION 

A  tale  of  the  African  wilderness  which  appeals  to  all  readers 
of  *fictfon. 

TARZAN  THE  TERRIBLE 

Further  thrilling  adventures  of  Tarzan  while  seeking  his  wife 
in  Africa. 

TARZAN  THE  UNTAMED 

Tells  of  Tarzan' s  return  to  the  life  of  the  ape-man  in  seeking 
vengeance  for  the  loss  of  his  wife  and  home. 

JUNGLE  TALES  OF  TARZAN 

Records  the  many  wonderful  expl 
his  right  to  ape  kingship. 

AT  THE  EARTH'S  CORE 

An  astonishing  series  of  adventures  in  a  world  located  inside 
of  the  Earth.   $ 

THE  MUCKER 

The  story  of  Billy  Byrne — as  extraordinary  a  character  as  the 
famous  Tarzan. 

A  PRINCESS  OF  MARS 

Forty-three  million  miles  from  the  earth — a  succession  of  the 
wierdest  and  most  astounding  adventures  in  fiction. 

THE  GODS  OF  MARS 

John  Carter' s  adventures  on  Mars,  where  he  fights  the  fero 
cious  "plant  men,"  and  defies  Issus,  the  Goddess  of  Death. 

THE  WARLORD  OF  MARS 

Old  acquaintances,  made  in  two  other  stories,  reappear,  Tars 
Tarkas,  Tardos  Mors  and  others. 

THUVIA,  MAID  OF  MARS 

The  story  centers  around  the  adventures  of  Carthoris,  the  son 
of  John  Carter  and  Thuvia,  daughter  of  a  Martian  Emperor, 

THE  CHESSMEN  OF  MARS 

>  The  adventures  of  Princess  Tara  in  the  land  of  headless  men, 
creatures  with  the  power  of  detaching  their  heads  from  their 
bodies  and  replacing  them  at  will. 

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JAMES  OLIVER  CURWOOD'S 

STORIES  OF  ADVENTURE 

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THE  COUNTRY  BEYOND 

THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

THE  VALLEY  OF  SILENT  MEN 

THE  RIVER'S  END 

THE  GOLDEN  SNARE 

NOMADS  OF  THE  NORTH 

KAZAN 

BAREE,  SON  OF  KAZAN 

THE  COURAGE  OF  CAPTAIN  PLUM 

THE  DANGER  TRAIL 

THE  HUNTED  WOMAN 

THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  NORTH 

THE  GRIZZLY  KING 

1SOBEL 

THE  WOLF   HUNTERS 

THE  GOLD  HUNTERS 

THE  COURAGE  OF   MARGE  O'DOONE 

BACK  TO  GOD'S  COUNTRY 


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ZANE    GREY'S   NOVELS 

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TO  THE  LAST  MAN~ 

THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

THE  U.  P.  TRAIL 

WILDFIRE 

THE  BORDER  LEGION 

THE  RAINBOW  TRAIL 

THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  DESERT 

RIDERS  OF  THE  PURPLE  SAGE 

THE  LIGHT  OF  WESTERN  STARS 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  PLAINSMEN 

THE  LONE  STAR  RANGER 

DESERT  GOLD 

BETTY  ZANE 

***•••• 
LAST  OF  THE  GREAT  SCOUTS 

~  The  life  story  of  "  Buffalo  Bill "  by  his  sister  Helen  Cody 
Wetmore,  with  Foreword  and  conclusion  by  Zane  Grey. 

ZANE  GREY'S  BOOKS  FOR  BOYS 

KEN  WARD  IN  THE  JUNGLE 

THE  YOUNG  LION  HUNTER 

THE  YOUNG  FORESTER 

THE  YOUNG  PITCHER 

THE  SHORT  STOP 

THE  RED-HEADED  OUTFIELD  AND  OTHER 

BASEBALL  STORIES 
GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,         PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK 


"  STORM  COUNTRY  "  BOOKS  BY 

GRACE  MILLER  WHITE 

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JUDY  OF  ROGUES'  HARBOR 

Judy's  untutored  ideas  of  God,  her  love  of  wild  thingag 
her  faith  in  life  are  quite  as  inspiring  as  those  of  Tess, 
Her  faith  and  sincerity  catch  at  your  heart  strings.  This 
book  has  all  of  the  mystery  and  tense  action  of  the  other 
Storm  Country  books. 

TESS  OF  THE  STORM  COUNTRY  , 

It  was  as  Tess,  beautiful,  wild,  impetuous,  that  Mary 
Pickford  made  her  reputation  as  a  motion  picture  actress. 
How  love  acts  upon  a  temperament  such  as  hers — a  tem 
perament  that  makes  a  woman  an  angel  or  an  outcast,  ac 
cording  to  the  character  of  the  man  she  loves — is  the 
theme  of  the  story. 

THE  SECRET  OF  THE  STORM  COUNTRY 

The  sequel  to  "  Tess  of  the  Storm  Country,"  with  the 
same  wild  background,  with  its  half-gypsy  life  of  the  squat 
ters — tempestuous,  passionate,  brooding.  Tess  learns  the 
"  secret "  of  her  birth  and  finds  happiness  and  love  through 
her  boundless  faith  in  life. 

FROM  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MISSING 

A  haunting  story  with  its  scene  laid  near  the  country 
familiar  to  readers  of  "  Tess  of  the  Storm  Country." 

ROSE  O'  PARADISE 

"  Jinny  "  Singleton,  wild,  lovely,  lonely,  but  with  a  pas 
sionate  yearning  for  music,  grows  up  in  the  house  of  Lafe 
Grandoken,  a  crippled  cobbler  of  the  Storm  Country.  He! 
romance  is  full  of  power  and  glory  and  tenderness. 

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CHARLES    ALDEN   SELTZER'S 
WESTERN  NOVELS 

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THE  WAY  OF  THE  BUFFALO  ~ 

Jim  Cameron  builds  a  railroad  adjacent  to  Ballantine's  property,  even 
though  Ballantine  threatens  to  kill  him  the  day  he  runs  it. 

BRASS  COMMANDMENTS 

Stephen  Lannon  writes  six  commandments  over  six  loaded  cartridges  set 
out  where  the  evil  men  who  threaten  him  and  the  girl  he  loves,  may  see  them. 

WEST  ! 

When  Josephine  Hamilton  went  West  to  visit  Betty,  she  met  "  Satan  "  Lat- 
timer,  ruthless,  handsome,  fascinating,  who  taught  her  some  things. 

SQUARE  DEAL  SANDERSON 

Square  Deal  Sanderson  rode  onto  the  Double  A  just  as  an  innocent  man 
was  about  to  be  hanged  and  Mary  Bransford  was  in  danger  of  losing  her 
property. 

" BEAU "  RAND 

Bristling  with  quick,  decisive  action,  and  absorbing  in  its  love  theme, 
"  Beau  "  Rand,  mirrors  the  West  of  the  hold-up  days  in  remarkable  fashion. 

THE  BOSS  OF  THE  LAZY  Y 

Calumet  Marston,  daredevil,  returns  to  his  father's  ranch  to  find  it  is  being 
run  by  a  young  woman  who  remains  in  charge  until  he  accepts  sundry 
conditions. 

"DRAG" HARLAN 

Harlan  establishes  himself  as  the  protector  of  Barbara  Morgan  and  deals 
;  out  punishment  to  the  girl's  enemies  through  the  lightning  flash  of  drawn 
.  guns. 

JTHE  TRAIL  HORDE 

f     How  Kane  Lawler  fought  the  powerful  interests  that  were  trying  to  crush 

•  him  and  Ruth  Hamlin,  the  woman  he  loved,  makes  intensely  interesting 
reading. 

THE  RANCHMAN 

;     The  story  of  a  two-fisted  product  of  the  west,  pitted  against  a  rascally  spoils 
man,  who  sought  to  get  control  of  Marion  Harlan  and  her  ranch. 

,  "  FIREBRAND  "  TREVISON 

[     The  encroachment  of  the  railroad  brought  Rosalind  Benham— and  also  re- 

*  suits  in  a  clash  between  Corrigan  and  "Firebrand"  that  ends  when  the  better 
!  man  wins. 

THE  RANGE  BOSS 

Ruth  Harkness  comes  West  to  the  ranch  her  uncle  left  her,    Rex  Rander- 
son,  her  range  boss,  rescues  her  from  a  mired  buckboard,  and  is  in  love  with 
her  from  that  moment  on. 
THE  VENGEANCE  OF  JEFFERSON  GAWNE 

A  story  of  the  Southwest  that  tells  how  the  law  came  to  a  cow-town,  domin 
ated  by  a  cattle  thief.  There  is  a  wonderful  girl  too,  who  wins  the  love  of 
Jefferson  Gawne, 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  PUBLISHERS,   NEW  YORK 


NOVELS  OF  FRONTIER  LIFE 

WILLIAM    MAC  LEOD    RAINE 

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BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP,  THE 
BRAND  BLOTTERS 
BUCKY  O'CONNOR 
CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 
DAUGHTER  OF  THE  DONS,  A 
GUNSIGHT  PASS 
HIGHGRADER,  THE 
MAN  FOUR-SQUARE,  A 
MAN-SIZE 
MAVERICKS 
OH,  YOU  TEX  ! 
PIRATE  OF  PANAMA,  THE 
RIDGWAY  OF  MONTANA 
SHERIFF'S  SON,  THE 
STEVE  YEAGER 
TANGLED  TRAILS 
TEXAS  RANGER,  A 
VISION  SPLENDID,  THfi 
WYOMING 
YUKON  TRAIL,  THE 

GROSSET   &   DUNLAP,  PUBLISHERS,    NEW   YORK 


B.  M.  BOWER'S  NOVELS 

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CASEY  RYAN 

CHIP  OF  THE  FLYING  U 

COW-COUNTRY 

FLYING  U  RANCH 

FLYING  ITS  LAST  STAND,  THE 

GOOD  INDIAN 

GRINGOS,  THE 

HAPPY  FAMILY,  THE 

HER  PRAIRIE  KNIGHT 

HERITAGE  OF  THE  SIOUX,  THE 

LONG  SHADOW,  THE 

LONESOME  TRAIL,  THE 

LOOKOUT  MAN,  THE 

LURE  OF  THE  DIM  TRAILS,  THE 

PHANTOM  HERD,  THE 

QUIRT,  THE 

RANGE  DWELLERS,  THE 

RIM  O'  THE  WORLD 

SKYRIDER 

STARR  OF  THE  DESERT 

THUNDER  BIRD,  THE 

TRAIL  OF  THE  WHITE  MULE,  THE 

UPHILL  CLIMB,  THE 

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